Today I wrote you a seven thousand word poem on the sidewalk on my way to work, but the homeless people gobbled it all up before I could memorize it. They said they needed it for their spirits. I tried to tell them that science says there are no spirits, but they can't afford science. They can't afford the ends of their gloves or blankets without obituaries. They just floss their teeth with all that hair you cut out of me last week and they're smiling all over it. You fucked it up on purpose because when you're away you don't want other girls to notice me. You can hang with my hair being too high above my ears. You can get used to that. Spock kept it that way and you've got your mindmeld all over this free heart. Shit. The poem sucked anyway. A homeless man, stretched high and sucking at the trickle, belched out the only line worth remembering: "And the Good General doesn't keep his gun by his side for his private misfortunes, but for when the whiskey stops burning them up." Your daddy spent a lot of money to put that book in your hands, so keep your thumbs around it and not my throat.
But I guess that's just one more weight for me to carry; one more face to fashion. No matter, so long as you never see who I really am. You, the stench that's not the air, but my insides rotting; the sizzling Coke concentrate dissolving at the scene of the crime; the bent nail that snags the elbow and breaks the skin. You. You, the multi-headed succubus benighted in my window, screaming into my nightmares, your tits crashing like death knells, hypnotically spiralling tongue of lies and misfortune - be they private or publicly operated - digging your nails through my karma and ruining my life. Goddamnit! Is there a sentence in this mind to contain you? Leave me to my petty devices and my demons, you Siren! Leave me!