Black Hole

Steel palanquins pass. I lie before their wheels.
The couriers bag is stiff with news of fresh defeats
retreats, debacles, til the day-time nightmares
nail the running wraith to a shivering path,
thumping bass, intakes clicked to shallow.

You gave your hand.

Butterflies, soft powder and antennae,
brush my shoulder, tempting, catching
at small threads of desire. Dreams doze
in the soft fuel of a duvet
comfort rests in the pillows high sierra.

Your hand withdrew.

Dead stars spin to self-collapse:
"My body is a temple that's why I only
take the purest Ecstasy..."
the wine, the whisky, the cigarettes and clogged lung.
I hear the arbors of yr folly spring with flowers.

The running wraith jangles in his copper maiden,
rehearsing speeches: "From this moment on,
you are dead to me."
I count the sticks we drop beneath our bridge,
their gleam diminishes, a good day tarnished.