the last poem by my favourite neurotic
was never written, dissipating in
blood-curdling octaves, like
a snared rabbit
she put her lusted disgust in Hell's Kitchen
far from New York
far from Auschwitz
All for food for thought
she dreaded a head of snakes
that shed skin in mirrored hate
she hated adjacent candle lights
that made sight just enough darker
to pronounce her shadow's height
but she loved her hand gripped tight
by an incubi who held hope
in disappearing acts & scapegoats
& the smell of its sulfur lulled her
in oxidized lies of a different color
whilst it's nostalgic plight
skull-fucked her
before she died, she wrote a list of supplies
then closed her eyes
she put the paper to open flame
her undisclosed thoughts left to vapors
then a look at a dimmed reflection
on a window pane
and said,
"You're just a poet, don't try to control it
offspring like a son that Apollo has stolen, it -
a sparrow to shoot on an empty trail's route
a sad story once told by the smile of a mute
a long pause, followed close by a lost cause
Could I ever tempt God with salivating jaws?
or draw clause under other people's dreams
I've slept with best-kept secrets of the elohims
now like an epic twice told, words are old
and indistinguishable to my soul
Know that cold rice still tastes like human faith
a starved animal in the same mandibles of fate
the reasons for breathing are stopping; boxed in
no more backward steps from white tiger's stalking
opting not for a tick-tocking paradox
I've enclosed all unwants into this rotten thought
My fall is now caught in a weightless station
anticipating the charm of impatient Satans
amidst all the pages, ravished in cries
I'm just a product of one kiss
and one too many lies"
With orbs sunken like birth
she left an expired fire of earth
for the ashes of her velvet lashes
from past sadness & gashes
head first
far from a guillotine
from from new beginnings
All for a mangled angel
called inspiration
