Alcohol Virgin Philosopher Kings club meeting, 7:30 sharp with homework 

and unsettled melodic war, all cacophonous in the background

and you’ll wish you were hitting weights with your other friends instead

and secretly you wish i’d repent for existing so freely.

the heated handle of a scythe is beating against 

my temple. it’s 7:45 but the moon still shines 

on an empty chair. it projects a cavernous yellow,

like a warning signal to our purgatorial fellowship; is 

that me? your cruel imaginary body facing me, while i

hover like a mechanical moth tethered to a string wondering

which of us is insane. my body accepts one god, curls its tongue

under a single theology – my heart, the one

i have been told to disown, accepts two. you’re a funny man,

you know that? a lasagna, actually, for one multilayered

and then buttered up and convenient therapy

when my devotion swallows you whole. but you’re

a sinner too; we said 7:30 and you’re always off 

the grid. waiting becomes grief, and i’ve truly gone barren.

if i’m not time infinitized, how do i make it here? how do i sin

in your name with such conviction?

it’s an option i have to lie supine and public on the kitchen floor 

and make snow angels. tactics are easier than shredding

wallpaper for serotonin; i am a lonely strategist with 

nothing but lifeless being to love you – yeah. it’s – 

i could leave if i wanted to.