I’m yours

and you’re mine

and that’s all I know

right now

howls Richard Hell as I wake to the pixelated ceiling

and my flatmates tell me I ate all the acid amid

my blackout, clawing drunk through the freezer

for the Mason jar’s microgrammatic contents

and someone cranks the revolutions

per minute to 78 on the 45, Hell

chipmunking about a gold tooth

and TVs on walls like paintings

and when Hell says well

I myself have got froth on my lips

my brain goes Baudelaire in the air

and suddenly I fear I’ll forever

be a moth twitching in the leaf pile

of avoidable psychosis, why didn’t I

stick to champagne and pop songs, fluff

is what they call the good stuff

that honeycombs your heart

but I’ve got bees enough as it is

and was it Paul or Tom

Verlaine who played guitar

for The Neon Boys, it is far

past midnight and no one

delivers pizza at this hour

so I sit smoking on The Porch

of the House of Usher, watching

a Yellow Pages abandoned

under a melting Mercedes

transform into a black cat

and ask me for my number