Sealed in wax and put under glass
Consuming predatory drugs
Put on a butcher’s coat and wine drunk
From glasses of blood
In the shade of peek-a-boo poetry
It is ether or orgy for me
Guided by a logic of madness you could not understand.
Still, I have this recurring dream of me
In this monastic cell, drunk, chanting prayers
With the hint of a smile
Writing letters, eating mints and chopping wood
In perfect rhyme
Willing and able to build a fire for the godly purpose
Of keeping cold at bay.