The Opium Den

 (For Fishturn)

Amabilis Insania

"The ancients had already observed the kinship between

the imagination and dreams, hallucination and visions...

Democritus had said that one could not conceive of a great poet

who was not possessed by a certain divine delusion.

Plato declared it was impossible for the production of

ordinary artistic intelligence ever to equal divine madness."

~ The Theatre of Dream, Resnik, Salomon

It is way past 13:00

I know, you know I saw you, pass them iron tracks

Your Jack Daniels, your Lucky Strikes, your “Leave Me Alone” Ways

Thinking about your Dirty Mama, thinking about your Boy Blue

You have come to rest your head upon my torso

Telling me, it’s late... too late for Indian Summer

And that somehow you have lost a season, possible several

The season when some dry flowers

Pack fruit in jars                          comfort for that cold bitch February?

February

Moon of dimensional smuggling, place of echoes and shape shifters

Season of Broken Rosary

That chokes, asphyxiates

It will come you know, sooner than we realize

Red lipstick, smeared sheets, extra shoe polish

Polished grip of the gun, hand made, expertly crafted

Angora, wool, silk. We’ll wear robes of small prey

And draw with a stick in the dirt

Our mouths meet in a confusion of Raspberry, Vanilla and Xanax

Season of

Scotch and bourbon, a time to stay behind smoke          forget

And you close the bar

Absolute of Cèpes, Costus, and Black Spruce

Define and guard the nights

Cannabis takes a back seat to the Shadows, it simply won’t do

We have laid down in the Night Garden

                                    chronophagoi

                                   distant nuncio

                                          lost days

I call upon Labdanum and Blond Tobacco and need fire

                                                                           Michael

                                                                            Gabriel

                                                                          Raphael

To balance the cloying and sickening sweetness of too much floral

Too much treble, the bright lights and paranoia

Overindulgence and insomnia

Bitch Season

She wants to see me dead you know

It’s ok

We know death well

humans              born to kill

Like hyena, like lion, like bear

Sometimes we eat our own

I am drinking each day by 10:00

Beautiful diners, leather coats, the newest shoe/boot

The vitamin, herbs, roots. One tablespoon of dragon bones in grain

Pure water, enough fiber

I too want to tell lies

And leave the garbage bill, water bill and Lovers

To pile up

Fruit, cheese- all sustenance

Left to rot

Make it go away

All go away

For I have gone

See me without my beauty, lace shoved in my mouth to stifle the screams

I want only to kiss, to kiss

Sex is so over rated, absurd and desperate

Bad for my state of mind

I will Tango when I am well

                        hold both your hands

                            look into your eyes

                                                 15:00

                                       finally falling

 
This is penetration

  
          Please

Do not speak

For sometimes I have confused the monster with the man you see

But don’t be deceived; don’t take my silence for frailty

I know enough to come out of this alive

To get up and walk 100 feet from the house

And call the Dream Helper by name