“You remind me of Basquiat, when it comes to the drugs, not the art. And your hair is a bit more tame”
Her fingers do a waltz
and hand me a cigarette.
I pull the matches from my esophagus
and attempt to inhale.
The coffee table
underneath our feet
begins to breathe.
It hates whenever we fumigate.
Second-hand smoke is really a holding cell.
She looks at her favorite wall and imagines a window.
“If you were good, we’d have some food in the fridge.”
She’s right, all we have is peanut butter and molded sourdough. The smoke nurtures every false hope.
As if its composition has shown us the world.
If I look inward I see a skull with a burning cigarette,
I have successfully turned into my vice.
If I were good , we’d have a fridge to begin with.
She fumbles with the couch cushions
until she finds a knife.
This is it, my five minutes of fame.
She could drive it straight through my skull & I wouldn’t feel a thing.
Turns out she is just a tease.
She grabs bits of hair and cuts them off,
placing the strands atop the bible. We utilize it as a coaster.
“Make a wish.”
Her forced smile attempts to provoke a compliment out of me. Only an imbecile could fall in love with a skeleton.
No wonder tarot cards always pick me to play the fool.
God made me tinman, placing the world’s parasite within me.
By Sunday I will have successfully ate myself alive.
She produces a bottle of Seagruam’s.
“Breakfast my love.”
The bottle expires in seconds.
We continue to sip it anyway.
Addiction is an art.
We attempt to become a Picasso painting by nibbling on some acid.
“Sunshine... You are my sunshine.”
The sink attempts to drown the neighborhood.
The walls stretch out our chalk outline
& the ceiling says,
“Endings are the best beginnings”.
She proposes to me on the balcony out of pity.
A pigeon serves as priest.
“No two people will be as fucked as we are. Not even Courtney & Kurt!” We hold hands and see what’s beyond the edge.
Existence plays out on Broadway.
The moon finally takes the stage.
Her light flickers like a half-dead motel sign.
My eyes haven’t been able to focus since the mid-nineties.
“Can we please become a cliche for a change? Lasso me the moon, act like your life depends on me!”
I express my love with a fresh pack of cigarettes.
She throws it down, attempting to ignite a street scene.
“I hope it hits a nun! I hope a taxi explodes and we make the nightly news.”
She folds her arms.
“If you were a good artist you’d make me believe in something again.”
We tie up and sterilize our means of transportation.
I am about to unveil my life’s work:
Junkies in a Jukebox Escape July.
May the landlord submit us to the MoMa.
