notebook scraps / poetry written while standing in the mud without an umbrella

wooden cross, it's unfamiliar to you,

you were raised by atoms, disinfected and real.

make me kneel,

tie my wrists to the bed in straps of leather,

arms to the side, legs together like jesus,

i will yield; to suffer is to be,

to suffer, to me, is to be free.

cross tied to the bedframe with chains from the drug store,

blood and spit on the sheets

but it's real.

black leather overcoat, all alone in the rain,

i'm just a ghost, blood on the pavement,

wash it down the gutter and you

stare right through me.

i'm just a ghost. and still you love me,

how do you do it when i am nothing?

i'm cold to the touch, and still you fuck me.