In the A.M.
Wake up in the dark, frozen alone
Esconced in thick and hairy ersatz warmth.
Impenetrable fortress of my
Pillow, blankets, mattress and empty head;
A barren landscape scarred with your tall
Effigies, thundering shadows, screaming
Memories, still echoing footsteps
After all the long inextremis years.
Peeled back eyelids, blinked once and two times,
Balding blackness bumps about noisily,
Chaotically, cacophany of
Cracking, crumbling comfort. In my bed
I spied a face, murky and muddy,
Calling out to me beautifully.
Reach, touch, penetrate, crush, never change.
Speak to me softly, vituperate me
Privately, pleasant lover. In the
A.M., I can see you staring back in
My direction, in your big fortress.
In the A.M., our discourse is made plain.
Do martyrs multiply, can they grow?
Or is death the fate of every great man?
Stare at me, ask questions and will you
Wonder about me? How many prayers is
Too many? The copiousness of
Dearth of greatness triggers the emptiness,
So I hide away forever in
My fortress of insincerity.
How many martyrs wake up content?
Our discourse is made plain in the A.M.