When I awake the world pulses and throbs
angry and demanding. Once more I feel

frantic. Even the promise of blow jobs,
skag and mayhem does not please. What appeal

sublime excess brings feels dull when compared
to this ache. Once more I’m sick, dim and grim

when I want to be veiled, feral and scarred:
your own incubus itching for more. Dim?

Indeed. My neck contains not one love bite.
My mind is off elsewhere. My thoughts scattered.

Eros will not please tonight when Eris,
goddess of chaos, calls. Chaos in moonlight.

All else feels absurd. There’s no other word
for me but, “loss,” no other pain but, “this.”