I have earned my medals – my depraved wings.
I have nothing to prove to the winter.
I have no impulse to explain away the night.
I will no longer beg for love.
These days courtship is a kind of punishment.
Self-indulgence doesn’t pay – but the chicks dig it.
I am sick of hoping upon hope.
I’m addicted to disappointment.
I’m addicted to late silences.
I can’t get enough of bad sex and jealousy.
I am a Bowery drunk on the Doric steps
At the corner of Love and Greed.
All these oil-black souls
Joke about love
But they are starved – just starved –
Prisoners of bittersweet poison,
Their hunger is their penance.
Hunger is how they show love.
Each kiss is a wound – a visceral itch
- the only form of beauty left.
All anger is a form of weeping.