Ex-lover, I don’t know why
I followed you around
with that weekend stick in my mouth.
If I took it on a bed, I had to
take it on the floor and in the
shithole registration booths and the home
offices, never in a car, often
in the grass, over the phone, with my teeth
You, former lover, had everything going for you,
with those long thin feelers and that velvet exoskeleton.
You had a very pretty voice, but absolutely
no talent. You liked to take pictures
out of other people’s albums
and call them your patricide theater.
You gave me a variety of muscle spasm.
You gave me a disease like lyme disease,
you put it in my thigh with your straw.
You corpse stunk, you puked fashion,
you stubbed whatever you could into
whatever I had.
Or I ran out of cloth.
It was a costume, it was the only thing
I brought with me. It was a cape
and also a surgeon’s gown. A fur
ruff, a latex harness. It was practical,
considering the assignment.
You paid people to barge in on us.
You strung my behind with Christmas lights.
It’s important to think of them as Christmas lights,
you told me.