A paranoid illustration, that's what I thought he said, and it even made sense to me at the time. I thought, "My life is a paranoid illustration." I thought, "This life is a paranoid illusion," and prepared myself for the next. I thought something would come of this, but it hasn't yet, and it's looking less like it will. I thought we'd be happy together, but I'm miserable either way, and you're right, we really both just want a bit of fun. Real life comes with real responsibilities, and we don't have to be living it yet, so should we have started? I think I may have started without you, or you've gone in reverse. The frivolity you once abhored is now desired, and I must admit part of me wants it too. I cling to my moral monogamous high ground but I get no respect for it, least of all from you, and I can't figure out what you want, but neither can you.

tense and nervous, and I can't relax
so I let my mind wander
but it always takes me to the same place
and I find
   it has betrayed me again
my real enemy is me,
and I have no real friends,
only false prophets trying to deliver
   me from happiness.
do you disagree, fancy dancer?
your footwork foreshadows incredible skills,
skills I could use if I could count on you
but your priorities are elsewhere.
but it's all in good fun, right?
everything's legal and fun is what's right
where there isn't any wrong, but shouldn't
it be wrong when it hurts this much?

the brakes of the bus sound
like feedback on a microphone
a stone-cold expression on some asshole's face
reflecting sound waves through space and time

like feedback on a microphone
spent moral change won't buy you candy
reflecting sound waves through space and time
the machine spits out ideas furiously

spent moral change won't buy you candy
billy goes to church because everyone else does
the machine spits out ideas furiously
billy goes to school because it's the law

billy goes to church because everyone else does
mother makes him perfect little sandwiches daily
billy goes to school because it's the law
the brakes of the bus sound

I think I just made myself
beautiful, through the power of the
Mind, and then It was lost.
Behold! Proof by obscenity, that these
mere mortals do indeed enjoy their
miserable fates, in bed three times a
week, crawling out the back door
afterward, not a word said, no mumbled
turn of phrase.
She spreads her acidic dust and skies
become cloudy & grey & a storm moves
in and stays for three months on the
futon. Moves out. Hits street
asphalt running shallow gulped breath but
this is the life for me!

we narrowly averted disaster last night
by dancing around the issue,
two moths around a dangerous flame,
but our flame is kept alive only by
immersion in a greater fire.

six times we will repeat the dance.
on the seventh, one of us will falter
and her relentless line will become unspeakable,
or I won't be able to lie by omission,
and for a moment we'll both be compelled
to admit we can't stand each other.

my world gets less stable as I get
closer to loss of control; the ground
shakes beneath me, and it
shakes beneath her, and I can't help
but hurt those around me as though
I enjoy watching.

I'm no voyeur of pain, and
my pleasure is not derived from anything,
for it is lacking.

I can't write right now
something bad keeping me down
flattening my whole existence
so that breath no longer fills my lungs,
 poison no longer tortures my liver,
 sweat no longer produced in glands
whose new purpose as yet unknown
sitting comfortably out of the action
my soul rises from my body
like I never thought it could,
and my mind is erotically surprised.
My only hope is to embrace my
new noncorporeal existence, but
it's futile. The very attempt
would make Sacher-Masoch proud but unhappy.