Death's Daughter (II)
I married my favourite audience,
a Victorian ghost with charcoaled eyes,
all black skirts and sad classical music,
and put her to bed for a year.
I had been working part time,
now I sliced my life into shift strips,
groveled in garbage jars and waded hipdeep in greasepits.
And hiked home to tidy her head.
And ate her paranoia for supper.
Grappling in sheets,
long-shadowed in red rainstreets,
we talked the ten thousand miles of the trail to her childhood,
probed her cranial catacombs and dusted under her brainstem,
and found there three hundred of her father’s vodka flasks,
and a Bible with a thick black cover, and no words.
Then, sleepless, full of her, sore and penless,
I biked black windways under cinder skies to factory cities,
to erect sixty smokestacks in a clock circle,
every minute dribbling smoke from drabbest inferno;
I patrolled the fortresses of my enemies and masters,
jingling magic keys to the Land of Boredom,
where the hours crawled on thirty-six hundred legs
past binders and sticky notes, duplicated space,
and bosses’ nests. All my writing rotting inside,
I went to bed to erase myself.
I limped in circles in a sphere of light.