1 -

how typical of me
to bury
so far into ecstasy
that I emerge empty,
unable to feel it's current
but for small, sharp, static bursts
incensing my calves, heart, feet

and having needed so badly
all week long
some body pressing into me
(so much so my dreams were riddled
with unwanted past lovers
and future mistakes,
I was melting with disgust
whilst awake)

how typical -
how unbearable -
that I should falter in my own concoction:

of barely cinnamon pseudo-Red
(how fortunate that science
approves my nocturnal pursuits -
as willed by my insides
beyond my brain's haunts)
and glistening with white,
one palette above my teeth
a dustier kind
than my solid-ground molars

finding at dark intervals, lucid, us
glistening in our toxicity,
odd and beautiful entanglements...
a delightful shock
to execute morning pages here

and I am grateful for these departures
however the repercussions fall
because I'm built of all I've known
and I've a glutton for humanity,
more alive for sleeping less
for passing Saturday's rhythms through me
- Sunday's head could almost convince me
I dreamed it, but,
Sunday's life knows
night's morning secrets -

and despite drowning in my pulsing self,
despite omitting the key arrival, I'm
more alive like this - subsisting
on skin
and conversation's complicity
revelling in the blurred moments
between self, ish and less