Life is just a one-night-stand
born in the belly of a star

I just read Nietzsche:
I looked into the abyss,
and it got me wet.

I had bulimia for breakfast.
It tasted like
hunger
and something I'd had before.

It tasted like
the broken mirrors in my room,
and something I'd had before
the hate made me like this

The broken mirrors in my room
tell me lies that take
the hate, make me like this.
These reflections make me

tell myself lies that take
the hurt, that make me whole.
This reflection makes me
an explosion, pushing all the bad, all the good,
                         all the all out of my body.

An explosion, pushing all the bad, all the good,
                          all the all out of my body.
I had bulimia for breakfast.
Hunger:
The hurt that makes me a hole.

She often wonders what the past was like.
Did it feel like it looked: black and white?
Nose in a book, anthracite coal strike.

Will she ever know JFK's ghost?

I haven't slept int four days.
And today I swear I heard the wind say
bless you after I sneezed.

There were
old wrecks of machines,
tumble-down buildings leaning together.
Not an ounce of energy nor a minute of time left over from the
awful,
hopeless
struggle.
Sun in the wrong place where it scorches and burns and exhausts you.
Black shade where you want sun and warmth.
No comfort.
The buildings lie in a heap, as if they'd been thrown there -- and there they stay.

It was over long ago, not with a bang,
with a sigh.