Prince of Nothing

We travel down the white box. You put your dreams inside my mouth. I taste toxic euphoria. So many fresh carpet glues and burning fields of ambrosia. It’s the Baltic abyss in those spaces you never let me go to. Deer darting through your hair. Hunters in the hedonistic bramble. Someone cries a lake of verbosity. But you don’t see. You’re too busy sending babies down river. Shadows climbing your face, spider legs summoned by candlelight—tiny acrobats of orange and curry yellow make strobing foxtrot, flickering flamenco. Suddenly you change. Your eyes like mirrors with teeth, clawing out for the image of someone you wished you left behind. The slave ship inside the bottle. The zombie choir. The words that make other words impossible when the lamps are out of reach. The lion inside the walrus, where anemone desire makes love to a boney hooker. The soiled sheets. The unwashed window panes. Your fingers on my Kantian buttons. The eightieth plague of soggy locust brains—cinnamon sticks of dynamite. Extruding forms. Dark opinions. Sharp sideways smiles and weary travellers, who cover their carmine hearts when they see your silhouette. A simple question. The violence of vertical lines. What were we waltzing toward when you broke the back of decency?