My Better Half

Sometimes during the night
When I wake up lost in that limbo
Between cognizance and the purgatory of sleep,
I see out of the corner of my half-closed eyes
My own leering wickedness.

Undulating in some type of rhythmic lurch,
He throbs like some primordial artery
Always in access of
the ancient deposits
of shadows lost in the cold
fractures of consciousness.

Slithering in periphery
He—I—seduces with gnarled
Fingertips of mirror-like obsidian
The Fetus of memory trembles
Inside its dismal shell.

Quick! I feel his head tilt
And the eyes like drunken nebulas
Tumbling gently in the frost of the night
That drapes upon us as he sings:

“Merry lost child! So far from the green path!
How many lives you have trampled upon!
Your happiness the solemn fruit,
The red liquor drenched across
Your arduous trek—how many children
Have you transformed to lonely
Women and men? So quickly
You grabbed her neck and felt the power
Surge through your arm the sabre.
Know this, child—before you squeezed,
She could have sworn in the midst of that
Inferno, that blur of rage and shame,
That hairs sprang up on your coarse neck,
And fangs of venom and white white love
Corrupted your sweet sweet smile.”

And before I turn away from
My manic, leering self,
Before I rid myself of guilt and agony,
Before I dream easy,
My loving wickedness, My
Better Half,
Whispers so sweetly
To the night (our cool sweetheart):

“You love so much child, you
Gon’ be the death of someone!”