destroy these instructions



what's been wrong, what's

been going on, he asked. It's in the vodka,

it's on the paper, I said, it's

in something I put on the paper

while I was in the

vodka



the all the time whisper

ethic

uneasy sleep suspiration

gambit lisps,

chanteuse...



yeah, then I reach back. but the past

is no fun anymore, my specific masochism

requires some blood in the now,

I want some rack tragedy, Becky,



I want to be hurt by your intrigue and better

you be drunk and livid. Score me

with them green fingernails again write

on me one last time your snailwise reverse

blossom tragedy of woe and lust



and later smoke cigarettes with me at 4 a.m. in that blue diner

by South Station above hot black coffee

wiped out among tacit afterglow sadness, no tell,

no motel,

we did it in

your truck, now

your black hair's woven

through your palm, wrung for grief of what?



I never had no trouble playing fool,

look here, I'll play it once more for you



tell him it's the puppetry of fate,

eggs on a plate;

let's find a rooftop

and get blazed this morning



(you see it's so no place here and

this coulda been something this coulda been

a contender)