Yes, I would rather sleep alone than fight
and this is why I sleep alone. A drunk?
Not too late, my first last career. I write
already, my prerequisite word sea
dotted by empty green bottles. But sex.
You were saying? I liked it with you. Love--
damn that beast! No prerequisite for love.
It needs nothing, not even us. Why fight
when I could sleep on it, on you, have sex
in a dream with a belligerent drunk,
then wake to your gentle coffee? Your sea
is still my sea, though “you’re right,” I can’t write.
I am saying, dear, who gives a text? Write
what you want or don’t write at all. I love
our love for its constance despite us, sea
change after spare change. I don’t have the fight
that you need to keep you in check, no drunk
fists here, battle scars. I choose sleep, then sex.
And sex? I can get that in my dreams. Sex,
stupid sex, fuck you, fuck me, fuck that. Write
of love that’s sailed with no plan for port. Drunk
on wine or nothing, I remain your love,
still mute, still dumb, no hope, no cash, no fight.
I remain your love across idiot seas.
Poets write this way and so do drunks. Sea!
Grief! Lost shoes! The Titian mound of her sex!
But see, you can die now, give up the fight:
this sweaty, besotted poet who writes
smileys 'round wounds? She bleats of you, love.
Yes, you have pissed off this poet, this drunk,
so she will no more speak of logic. Drunk
on its own horsetail brew, logic. Sea,
and see what I mean? What lasts? Only love,
without our help. Refusing demands. Sex
we have some say in, still. Don’t you dare write
of her, whoever she will be. I’ll fight
only then, bar fight on the brain. I’m drunk
on waiting for you to write. Heart at sea,
no due course. Sex, we have some say. Not love.