You’ve caught me with
my suicide mask wearing thin –
Death, an old sidekick
and various forms of unrequited love;
accompanied by
virgin humiliation,
strike the bone of the ghost-ridden
music that echoes in the
hollow of my heart

I want you to take
some of your old medicine;
this hate, this emaciated bitterness
and the dehydration of the body,
the loveless trough
throat and lungs make amid the unheard

Pulsing of a sick sun
in the pumped-out stomach ache.
God, I’m tired of being late –
suiting my person to a fool’s
tailor who labors blind for the emperor;
and does not know
the difference between desire and dust:
nor these odd goodbye scenes
conveying no taste of
the final, approaching lust

©Dean Baker



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