Kirk was a flirt.
Bones could clone.
Scotty liked scotch.
Chekov goofed off.
Sulu, he flew.
Uhura went further.
Chapel would coddle.
But
SPOCK,
He
ROCKED.

I have memories
That could be mine,
Selfies of other times.
Gray matter shots
That morph and shift,
Blur and smear
Yet shine.

My phantom snaps
Have smoke and mirrors,
Spectres with borders.
The smell of bacon,
A rising sun,
A carpet hill
To lay upon;
A door that swings
To past future,
A window to see through.

My astral albumn
Haunts my nights,
No light can dim my view.
I think my thoughts
Are photoshopped.
These memories of you.

What have you got there?
Record, LP.

Nima looks at me.
Which one?

Ornette Coleman.
I show her
the record sleeve:
three men standing
in snow.

She nods,
loses interest,
looks away.

Pigeons make noises
about us;
people pass by.

We're in Trafalgar Square.
How are you?
I ask,
sitting on the low wall
around the fountain.

*** starved,
need a fix
and a smoke,
she says.

I can give you
a smoke.

She sits beside me.
There is the sound
of water
from the fountain
behind us;
chat of others
around us.

I give her a cigarette
and light it for her.

She inhales gratefully.
Needed that, said
the bishop
to the good-time girl,
Nima says.

How's your *** life?
She asks
after a few  minutes
of silence.

Non-existent.

Likewise;
I feel like
a ****** nun.  

I watch traffic go by;
a boy and girl
walk by
hand in hand.

Nima watches them.
Bet they're *** life's
up to the top rung,
she says.

How's it
at the hospital?
I ask.

The usual:
stupid quacks,
*** starved nurses
and medication
to help me get off
other drugs.

And is it working?

Don't know;
all I know is
that I am aching
for a fix.

What about a drink?

Not allowed.

Coffee?

You know how
to get to
a girl's heart,
she says sarcastically.
Coke and burger  
and you're on.

I nod my head.

We walk through
the Square
and up towards
Leicester Square
to a burger bar
where we sit
and order both.

If you come visit me
at the hospital next time,
bring me
a packet of smokes.

Sure, if you like.

And they'll look at you
suspiciously.

Why?

They suspect
we had ***
in that cupboard.

We did.

I know
and so do they,
Nima says, smiling.

I picture the scene
some weeks back,
she and I
in a broom cupboard
off the ward
in the semi-dark,
risking it.
Quite a lark.

In speech class they taught us that people speak only to entertain, to inform, or to persuade so when I texted you at 4:31am after swallowing the liquor cabinet and talked about three years ago in Michigan when we watched that movie after everybody else had fallen asleep, I was trying to entertain you, trying to remind you of all the fun we used to have together before you changed and when I told you I missed you I was trying to inform you of the pit in my stomach that you left when you removed yourself from me, of the way I feel when you say my name and of the fact that yes, I did notice that you stopped saying my name and when I told you I was dying I was trying to persuade you to come save me, made it life or death so you only had two options and if you made the wrong choice at least I wouldn't be around to see it, I was trying to convince you that you needed me by showing you how much you would miss me and when you showed up at my bedside, I know you were trying to tell me you loved me.

Spit your poison into my open ear, let it leak
through my veins and secrete from
my pores, let it drip upon my
mouth and slither on top
of my tongue, you
know I love the
taste.

stupid living boys
     and their hummingbird hearts.
stupid dead boys
     and their lingering stares.
supermarket polaroids,
     cold apartment poetry,
faded glassy eyes,
     ***** fingernails.