Perhaps we are not real; the way the ghost
in the machine is not really dead, death
being more haunting than haunted. Stoned, dosed,
zonked, I love escape; each night my soul’s breath
escapes my lungs, filling me with aching,
with awe, a long dead girl in the empire
of her knowledge, laughing when the living
bemoan about the death of desire,
as if lust can be half-alive in us.
What’s real when we’re stoned, liquefied, reduced
to the rude fluids of our souls? What’s real
is when we thrust and grunt and moan, oneness
being found in cumming, in the unloosed
orgasm that’s the gods’ gate in our skull.