She told me once, we’re all breathing dead stars, stardust, dark matter, remnants of burned out light, frozen screams consumed within the singularity of a black-hole.  She inhaled and then exhaled, “You must breath in deeply, because this is where beauty reigns supreme.  Life, love and beauty exists between each breath we take.  Right in that briefest of moments when you are no longer breathing, this is where time is suspended, where life and death exist in unison.  Sunrises are here and then gone, just like you, and just like me.  This was her celestial “Dear John Letter”.  Like most of the shit that came out of her mouth, it would at first intrigue me and then piss me off. It could never be a simple goodbye with her. No, she shrouded her surrogate love in crazy talk.

She’s french and knows much about jazz, mediation, paints, mixes her own colors, creates light, smiles at me and laughs at the world, all the time, for no reason.  Like a child’s daydream she keeps my heart in a snow-globe at her bedside——she shakes my world leaving me lost in a blizzard of colors and emotions——there is “the world”, and then there is, “her world”—-and you are either in it, or you’re not.

They say everything happens for a reason, if that’s true, then that kiss she once gave me was a letter incorrectly addressed, mailed without a stamp, delivered to a generic “resident”—(me)—, cause now she’s gone, leaving me soulless like a corpse rotting in its cold dark grave———–if you choose to believe in such things—-love and death that is.

But you can’t get it back now, your kiss—now only my kiss (in retrospect, a one-sided kiss), cause I figure you’ve forgotten all about it——just another tombstone in your cemetery heart.  I’ve been in your bed, lost my self in your room of mirrors with its cobwebs, floating specters, broken clocks, and that black cat leading me into your dungeon of pleasure and pain.  So these words I send off to you are a curse, a spell cast by a zombie searching for the one who ate his heart and raped his soul.

Words set aside in a poem, prayer or letter are inescapable.  They aren’t like a song you can idly hum along with or mindlessly mouth every other word that you think the lyric is, or might be—-or maybe what you willed them to be.  Words are more like a haunting melody that forces itself into your head and then attaches itself to your wavering sanity.  That frightening place where reality and madness fight for expression. What is reality anyway?  Questioning reality is the first step towards madness or its crippled stepbrother “wisdom”.  And in time, my words will devour who you are or who you thought you might have been.  I’ll force feed you my words until you choke on them, because my words have teeth and claws, that at first——French kiss my mouth, —–and then become fangs that bite the neck and then drink the blood. Some kisses give life, others rob the very light that sustains life.

She fooled me—–I was sadly mistaken about that kiss she left on my mouth.  It wasn’t a kiss after all, it was a sucker punch, the bite from a black-widow, a soul siphon——she’s my lil demon, always taking more than she intends to give.  Tell me this, why is the forbidden fruit always so sweet?

And all the rest is way beyond words.