Married to the typewriter keys,

the divorce is bloody as I lie in bed

like a suicide pill that won’t

go down

and can’t throw up.

Macy’s won’t let me write.

Viacom thinks I cum fruit punch.

Hollywood keeps cutting my hair

and I look like Juliette Binoche,

except too short and sad.

Outwardly unartful,

painters blow away chalk like they’re

kissing between my legs,

or sawing at my wrists,

or beating my eyes

after I shined your jewel

and your head

sat higher than the skyline.

Glowing images of your house

from my bra

like pale church light,

while your wife bustles to the phone

and neatens the flowers.

(I’m almost happy right now.)

And you two bath in LSD,

you washing her breasts with expensive

bubbles.

But I’m a star-

withstanding psychosis like an astronaut

in a blow-up shuttle-

and I’m sure, I’m sure,

I am part of your orgasm

like bits of leaves you can’t sweep away.