kissing ashtrays--1/7

Kissing Ashtrays

Would the moon have risen in the same way
in that perfection of dusk
with the winter trees regarding the sky with a philosopher’s third eye
if I had been with you as the bomb dropped
and spilled confetti in our beer?
Would we have laughed at the stars settling on our tongues?

I assumed you’d tire of kissing ashtrays,
and I knew that my bloody fits would be difficult to swallow.
You would slip on your headphones
as I kicked in the teeth of pan flutes.
I am that same hysteric, again.

I am the debutante of an impoverished society,
the handmaiden of the bohemian underground.
I spin in those cotillions that artists always throw.
I will be auctioned off to the highest penniless bidder:
She eats peanut butter sandwiches
and her lungs are collapsing along with her heart.
Who wants this slut?
Who wants to hold down her wrists and
roll her screams under your tongue?

They say the captain never abandons their ship
and I was no exception.
I watched many a vessel crack in half,
and more than enough times I crashed into icebergs in gin-fueled spasms.
More than enough times I sunk into all seven seas
not bothering to search for treasure or touch the bellies of whales.
More than enough times I wrote letters to god in dots and dashes
before the water flooded ballrooms and boiler rooms.

I am the bitch slave of tragedy.
He bought me a pitcher of beer and asked my name
and if I owned a pair of heels.
He had the upper hand, as most of my lovers do.
He made no promises, only proposals
and I still wear his rings heavy on my hands.
He has ripped apart every seam on my black dresses,
and I fall asleep with him filling me up just below the brim.
“I’m drowning,”
“Would you like some water?”
“My glass is half-full, asshole.”