Let me draw down the moon, unless she wants
to be left alone. It’s why we share our
first names and respect. Lady Macbeth haunts
all those who think that she and the flower
can still be sold – which of us has not gripped
a knife? pressed it against the fleshy bits
of our bellies? Out, out, damned spot. Horsewhipped
until the clay cums. There’s more than cocks, tits
and cum in this breathing life. I consort
with the long dead. What hangs between their thighs
has long confirmed their worth. ‘Le petite mort’
ruptures when my guts give forth. Samurai’s
cold steel piercing me. All my happiness
comes down to this: strife, sex and cannabis.