I was never real,
so I don’t have real stories.
Walking dark streets, in secret not alone,
no ominous shadows
but flying sorcerers with fortunes to bestow.
Hallucinations? Willful delusions, collusion with
Mania, unsane and definitely unsafe.
She laughs in hailstorms,
blissed-out by biting pain as cold razor teeth
taste her cheeks, ears, nose, uncovered flesh.
Smoke simmering black deliciously divides while cackling
into echoes far seeking.
But there’s that puppy-dog barking need for love, for
status, for a wise old fool to follow into certain death
Who believes these mutterings?
Who would want to?
There is no marvelous flavor here.
What little gristle of nutrition is sour and hard.
Still, if one must be a tragedy in
one’s own private opera,
twould be best to entertain
with gusto, with splendor,
this dour audience.