In the end, they were all self-inflicted.
It was a just question of who I asked to hold the knife |

Some mornings I wake up tired
before the fire of the sun eats
the mist covering the dust
on the long road my feet travel
each day wishing I was asleep still
just like a snake in an old tire
dreaming of young boys rolling
me over and over down a steep hill
again, forever and ever, amen.

Do you recall
the black dot
dark spot
fevered body
burning
sun hot
getting dizzy
and cold
feeling
a hundred years old.
Till, you fought off
this severe
chest cold congestion
that might have been
pneumonia.

The lights should not twinkle
or shimmer like they are reflecting
from a swimming pool.
My eyes should not water
but they still do
when I remember you.

One cool long trip,
when I had to put
these waxy things
in my ears to swim;
One long ago time
with water in my nose
that strange wet
and awkward sneeze.

These are only tiny fractals
fractions of a memory
minus depth
and color quality.

His self-portrait's quite alluring
and screams desperation
Wonder why he felt desperate?

Perchance money, fame, romance
Or an urgent need for medication?
Suppose we shall never know..

"The Desperate Man" 1844-45
By artist, provacateur
Jean Courbet

Her hunger is veracious.
She speaks so salacious
and I parallel her passion.
Cause no touch could ever sate us.
I burn at a thousand degrees.
It is only she
who could come the closest
to cooling me
as she drenches my body
with her juices,
while our flesh
slips and grinds together
slippery with the hard work
we call pleasure.