Shades of desire (ash, battleship, cadet, cool)

by Christos Polydorou

Not tonight
Live and let live,

eight. Cured pork
sandwiches. Olives tempered
in garlic
and olive oil. Shots
of whiskey. Of
firewater. Washed
down with beer.

Numb me now. Numb
all my pain. You think
writing about it helps?
What cosmic theories
about the spirits of artists?
What seemingly mundane
home rituals in an attempt
to gain mastery over the
supernatural? This is not a
cape. I wear it to keep warm
in lieu of sub zero temperatures.

Please, not tonight.
I know you are truly drunk.
But when we make love,
I need more awake

than just your ****.
But you look like some gorgeous sea god
beached in our ungodly bed. Grey hairs
threading the pale skin stretched like sails
across your strong skeleton.
I almost want to wake you up,
make love to you, wasted, drunk,
trashed, pissed, three sheets to the wind,
annihilated, arse-holed, plastered, sloshed,
smashed, shellacked, shit-faced, off your tits,
but then you roll over, and you let out a sigh,
and your breath smells like a men’s pub urinal,
and that was the inciting incident, or rather, it
was about the fifteenth thousandth time
it had happened, so I thought, I am so done with this
selfish mother******. He was gone in a week.

* * *

Go away, please, daddy.
Let me be, let me grow, let me learn how to nurture myself.
I’ll be fine, daddy.

I’ll survive without you.

Look at me, here, writing.
Successfully purging you.
What poison? It’s all been