I've Been Writing For An Hour And My Fingers Hurt, First Draft

And how I prayed

As you preyed.

Nowhere to go

But I went.

When you’d show,

It was an event.

You lit up the room

With your gaslight:

Colorful tales bright

Braided by your loom

Charmed me out of fight.

Once upon a universe,

You spun me

Into a planet

Untraversed

Made of granite

Polished

By your tapestry.

Big crash,

Big bust.

No ash,

No dust.

Man, what a star,

Streaking the sky

Forever high

A Peter Pan fly

In the ointment

Of my treatment.

Blow jobs in your car

You’d earned by gender

What a light spectacular

Puking on your fender.

But for the sake of Dorothy,

I won’t gale

All the honesty.

I’ll exhale

Your meteorology,

Tornado hail,

Punching holes in my pale:

Your own rheumatology.

You’re The Great Wizard,

The man behind the curtain,

A man of higher degrees,

Heights meant for a bird.

Nights meant for work

Were a private party

For three.

If I’d had half a mind

I would’ve called you out,

But days after

They took me off the ventilator,

You were about,

I was bipolar;

You went out,

I stayed sober.

You left

I wept

While Death

Swathed himself

Around my neck

But not before a strand

Of his slack noose breath

Slithered into my ear a Blacktooth

Grin:

“It’s a short walk

To the Hangman’s Deck,

Yet

There are no more steps

Taken than those to Neverland.”