I like pretending I mean something to the ghosts
who wreak havoc on my bones
impaling these masochistic butterfly wings
on railroad spikes
between heartbeats and bedsheets
immortalized
I am a walking, talking universe of dead poets
who tattoo their stanzas into my flesh
with ghostly typewriter fingers
I live and breathe their worldly disasters
like a nicotine addiction I've always had
Drowning in their scribbles
I kiss their shoreline romances
envy their Annabel Lee's
and carry their hearts in mine
I am 7am coffee on Sunday mornings:
a half drunk, hung-over limerick
waiting to happen
I am jealousy:
nothing more than weak words,
and a tongue-tied cliche-
I am death:
Anathema,
A wanderer
The swiming liquid fire through the ashes
of a dead phoenix veins.
I am Post Mortem.
