I am lonely enough, now, and
drunk enough on my own demise
to appreciate their
their beauty is like mine, the
crashed and declining kind –
gifted only with an
at 1:45 in the morning
things blur and start to look grand
tragedy junkie, that's me,
I am my own
smiling crookedly at myself in the mirror,
mocking, bitter dead has-been
I wear too much lipstick now.
they are multitudes, marching in formation
to the kitchen
charting new terrain.
I feed them leftover amphetamines
and marvel at their glory.
they are brown, bronzed,
shining backs and scuttling little legs
heads of thought, insect thought, their wiry gold antennae
waving frantically in the possession
of a new idea.
I will never use insecticides.
they like to commit suicide
by jumping onto the ceiling fan,
finding refuge in the blissful
they fall, gracefully, in fragments,
paper-thin pieces of their golden-brown wings
spiraling down, translucent