Poem for Holy Spirits

Under the quiet creaking
of books
– old poets’ grave –
I sit by the fire escape window
in an old rocking chair,
admiring a spread
of beautiful, bloody welts
which run along my legs.
Consciously, I peel their armour,
relieve pressure, edge closer to
holy! ecstasy.

Under the quiet creaking
of ivory pages
– old poets’ headstone –
I read of Mexico & fire, and
let my anguish drain
from fresh wounds
on my dainty legs.
I imagine ghosts of drinkers and dreamers
kissing and stumbling and
laughing
in the shadow
of invisible me.

Under the quiet creaking
of apocalyptic words
– old poets’ rotting carcass –
I pen self-indulgent poetry, happy
that they are gone, and not here
to outshine me.