Too Many Spirits

Not yet spring and the clubs are filled
with fat cubs lusting through winter, the longing thrust
and everywhere the golden calf of desire
rises up but I am drunk, once more,
smiling like a fool and so it is that
everything is make believe — laughter, the life, the disease.

Somehow I am not convinced,
a girl rests her head on my shoulder and hears a song
of rain with a sunshine gait, mistakes it for
heartbeats because we are drunk,
caught in the wind and leaves, and
everything else is make believe — laughter, the life, the disease.

So we stand in a room with many walls,
against the pillars of smoke and watch the men who
pose like statues, the women
who love them, everyone is drunk, but even so
it used to be poetry before this:
everything is make believe — laughter, the life, the disease.

* * *

Need to cut back. On all of it.

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