My Best That's Not Too Hot

Dead Muse

My baby's all black and blue and broken,

  lying on the bed beneath me

  inside me,

Done in by ice

  and fourteen years of morphine

  that never ends the pain but dulls the mind

  slays the will --

  and killed my baby dead.

Mad pain's my one steady date now,

  all dolled up in dopiness:

  dizzied dreams of what was what is what will never be,

  and will never end.

Screaming in the night

  she awakes sometimes  to whisper in my ear:

Sweet Nothings.

Sometimes she grins a little wicked smile

  then bleeds me back to druggy peace.

  I never dream of her now,

  never see more than her back --

  that fine ass that's bottomed out,

  bequeathed to another by now, I'm sure,

  but still dead beneath me

  inside me

  pleading softly for me to call her

  "Franky."

So now, at last,

  bending to her perverse will,

  I think a quiet, desperate "okay."

I hook her up:

  a web of wires that link her to the fire in other's dreams,

  a frantic search for someone's spark to siphon off and pump her full

  and blow those baby blues wide open.

And now,

  dead fourteen years,

  I think perhaps,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           just maybe ...

I think I see

  a smile.