Thank You, I Do Not Remember
What magic did you put into my drinks, when
mixing one part Kraken,
one part butterscotch schnapps, splashed
with cola, two separate glasses of
buttery black spiced rum cocktails, one
a la mode, one
on the rocks?
We have a grinder,
we have both our glass pipes,
and we have a bag of reefer
and we have the end of a joint,
Kay, do you remember reading of the Caterpillar, there was a problem when Alice visited him in Wonder Land, on a whim,
and he was sitting, smoking hookah upon a mushroom,
and neither of them could recite the poem,
I do not remember
the rerun of Penny Dreadful,
weary in the throes of back trouble,
only I remember the title,
where John Clare, ward and alone, wishes to die,
to rest on the Northampton grass below–
above the cathedral ceiling sky.
And yet, my lover, you, too, were so high
neither to remember how I pry,
nor to remember how you reply
betwixt each hit.
You are forgiven. We went much higher, then,
when we ascended the stairs of the duplex, when
and where I do not discern where you end and I begin.
Frankenstein has to exist opposite
as The Adam of his Struggle
is of The Fallen Angel.
I am too presumptuous, when
I assume God must be a man, but never have I held the keys,
and you rebuke, “No. She is a woman.” A woman I long to please.
What would transpire, after
and Vanessa reciting together
a poem of John Clare, does not matter
I am much happier here,
where drink and smoke have led
me lying next you, my dear,
to finally sleep, without my pain and without my head.