There might be a tear in this façade—but oh!
what a tear if it marks me the beast in every night to come—
for every night was warped by the beast in us.
The party has only just now begun
to swallow all the sorrow in us.
Weakened states of ire, I used to think I was destined to dance,
Harlots be damned! I’m going to fucking dance!
We kiss each other,
wipe off our feet.
I stagger to a bottle—
fall right in.
This life keeps on twisting itself around
my frail neck; she came all of a sudden,
just like that, in my hand, inside, with a mere
twist of my knurled fingers—shaped like a claw
in the prize of my hand.