I want to write my eulogy painted on a tin roof
of over-emphasized lyricists drowning in fervor...

I'm the olive in your martini,
stinging from a splash of vermouth...

Slipstreams of imperial guidance.
Wayward movements shadowed in...

I
look at...

You're the bullet I have to take.
You, with machine-gun eyes...

I fit the bill--
spurts of intensity...

Obsession is my tattered fingertips;
the masochistic, paradoxical fetish...

My good night's
sleep is sealed...

Loneliness,
so strange...

Sometimes I get so lost (but never with words.)
I'm just the hands on a clock...

Razorblades jive across my tender flesh
as you dig your way inside me, deep...

I found a spot on your chest where my head fit...
I laid there listening to your beating heart...