My love doth lie so unrequited
that I find myself in desperate hours
as to lend my affections toward
books of matches and light bulbs
or lesser sources of warmth
As does the love that stands in you
wrapped in hooks and thorns and trimmed
toward the pressures of external definitions
like a blue jean ad.
And love is only feeling and feelings
control you indirectly
more directly than you feel.
So struggle against your happiness
as the door’s so easily slammed
against your better nature.
And me? I’ve taken to hiring the
whores on 5th street to paint me
water colors and pastels
where some paint of hearts and rainbows
or flowers bloomed in Hell
when hung upon the hotel wall
they do their part to brighten
the lights of splintered passion
in the gaudy neon flashing
to the gentle ringing rhythm
of the nation’s tolling bell.