I thought
As I sat
On the bus
Sucking date rape drugs
Because I shake
Which is weird
And unexplained.
Where did I go?
Did I leave?
Or did I die?
And who is here, now?
Off to Paris
To stay in a garret
A photographer’s muse
Or not
As the case may be
(If in doubt
Transplant self
A million miles away.
C’est facile!)
Increase my meds!
We said
Ruefully
Because
There’s no time to swap
Now that I’m off
(Because she is sad, or just empty.)
Fill me up!
With more drugs
Every night
In the dish
By the bed
In which un homme japonais
Talks to his wife
Who makes tea
(Bought at a flea market
In Paris
With loose change
Last year.)
Paris will help
Though its exact effects
On serotonin
And dopamine
And norepinephrine
Are yet to be determined.
Off the bus
To walk home
When a vicious cold rain
Sucks the heat from the streets
And makes steam on the road.
People run, they are scared
Of the water
It’s a surprise
But I smile
Because
At least
Something is finally more inexplicable than me
And my moods
Which are not
Exactly what you’d call predictable.
I stride through the rain
In my boots
Getting soaked
Getting looks
Unperturbed
My hair starts to curl
My breasts catch the rain
Plump, cold and white.
Fill me up!
With more drugs
Cos I'm sad
Or empty
Or maybe just numb.
But the fear
Is intense
When it’s there
And the voice is quite savage
That insists
That I’m wrong
And I’m bad
And I’m small.
So there is something, inside.
(Though it wants to turn her inside out
Skin parting obligingly
Like butter
Left out on the bench.)
Fill me up!
Twenty-three pills
Every day
To feel normal
Or to try
Which means that the something, inside
Goes away
Or at least
Doesn’t come to Paris.
Where it is not welcome.
(How did it come to this?)
On le metro
I shall ride
Sans the something inside
And eat tartes aux framboises
Every day.
(La fin.)
