and gratifying sex isn't always memorable,
which portends love but lust
with nothing to lose...
memory is a despot
that lives in my apartment,
bangs pots and pans,
reminding me at every turn,
every rattle of the Rumbler.
it follows me to bed,
and sits on my head,
and shouts
if I try to sleep
without dreaming.
it locks the door
and cuffs my wrists
and watches me try to run;
I believed in romance.
I mean, why it cannot be?
from really bucolic Brooklyn,
discerning the change,
vengeance in all aspects,
envy inside a fraudulent dream
in the heat of a cold sun.
feasting on what was found
within my stolen heart,
I was left as one flame,
an unbrooding life
of requited desire.
I won't have that; I just won't.