Another night of nasty pain and sweat pissing from you into your sad pillow.
You’d notify local authorities of your situation if only there were any.
Too late for all that drama now, too late for dread as the moon’s below
Your shrinking horizon. Your remaining options now few, once many.
You vaguely recall the coming here, the clownish pratfalls face-first into now:
A woman or man in tears, clear vodka over ice, children, children and blood;
A nurse with yellow syringe and yearning smile, an actor with smirking bow,
Something always about loss, a whole world flushed in a sudden flood.
The idiot sun stumbles in from the east wing, but this stage is empty
Save for you with your ridiculous jungle of hanging bags, tubes and wires,
Hovering huge faces filled with perfect teeth you paid for. It can’t be.
Another night has always, always been. Trust no one. These people are liars.
You push the blessed, fascist button and for a moment it all fades
And you pretend as you have so often pretended, it truly seems forever,
To believe in the profoundest nothing, no shining paradise, no Hades.
A pretender no more, you know you’ll never again disbelieve. Never.
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