Married to the typewriter keys,
the divorce is bloody as I lie in bed
like a suicide pill that won’t
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.
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
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.