Sick.

07.00.
those sublunary,
velvet eyes tangle
into the blues of the bed linen,
half-closed
in half-light -
still managing to educe
this lacerated breast.
I'm a tease.

08.00.
you turn the wide pillow over
when blinds are lifted,
when light pours out
across your translucent flesh
and that slugabed manner
has time to change.
It drops
like the bass line
of my migraine.
Still those velvet pearls pine,
keen and begging
and stiff with need.
I'm a tease.

09.00.
try to
remedy madness
while I pacify current trauma.
Stare down white walls that cannot
comprehend
malediction in any eager morning.
They feel friction.
Still I, carved like wood
into your body,
can feel the Devil's rapture
crying for my sealed lips,
to speak the simple 'No' it would take
or
the corruption required
to shut an old mind down.
I'm a tease.

10.00
breakfast.
The phlegm  in my throat and
this soul that's friable,
like the drugs we took
tastes like sick.
I am desperately
clinging to memories,
of times, I didn't feel
backed into the corner,
trying to play it down.
I'm a tease.
Still a victim.
Quiet kid,
ever the blue-
baller.