What whore of a ghost chose to revoke
a sentence left for death and blue;
purple panties, whatever else reminds you
of dying; New Jersey, her treasure
her state her pleasant razor wrecking balls
I call "home grown terror tactics,"
she calls breasts; flanking foot soldiers
fumbling codes and numbers
one for the lock the other for her phone
Her name is Sophie;
Sophia Southland?
Its all a northern idea anyway;
computers, convicts, conventions,
dictionaries medicine; men of war,
CHILDREN of GREEN PEACE,
slow paced half mile jogs to cars
and smoke and dust and shit;

Sophia Sutherland?
London's own, but L.A stole
for some movie about ships
pirates and sex? could've sworn
all the endings in California
are torn between killing the hero
and loving a whore
Staggering stations in Times Square,
leading to the Avenue
that tells me your name,
and the place by St. Marx
where we sold the love that we made
for a script of amphetamine pills
that you saved, splitting the lesser half
of a stash for benzos, beer, absinthe,
absent minded hip-pads, far past
"prog-rock," and cock rock, and
blue shots and white rocks
snort like a lady,
and downed hatching pop rocks
no rhythms,
no saviors,
just AA and hangovers that lasted much longer
than a week or a day or the time that they say
to recover from a sickness
with no name and no face
burrowing borrowing twilight's grace
roaring arousing erotic pace
masturbate while I smoke
the fire escape,
not too come down escape
for great lengths, or
I'm running puking overdosed
crazy, sad and sorry
but not stupid,
locking your door
drowning me in the tub,
god damn you New Jersey
her pet rock, grinding wheels
missing you--- bye--
kissing you well
wishes and hell;
deep in the heaps
of my own sleeping well.