Ghosts rise and drink. Before the sulfuric heat
of the muggy gray sky (which never rains)
untwines itself from the dawn my heartbeat
murmurs and my hand shakes. Each new bloodstain
from the kitchen knife oozes down my arm
only to scab over. My body plays
host to a host of ills that plague and swarm
throughout me. I’m simply the obscene maze
that all things must flee from — Mama Lilith;
I’m shit-faced and you’re here with my meltdown.
Your twitch, my cut, all this must bleed. As host
to this chaos I’m your kith drunk on myth,
your kin sodden on gin — I won’t come down;
nothing comes down; not host-demon, not ghost.