as the Bomb sits out there in the hands of a
diminishing species
all you want
is me sitting next to you
with popcorn and Dr. pepper
as those dull celluloid teeth
chew away at
my remains.

I don’t worry too much about the
Bomb—the madhouses are full
enough
and I always remember
after one of the best pieces of ass
I ever had
I went to the bathroom and
masturbated—hard to kill a man
like that with a
Bomb?

anyhow, I’ve finally shaken
R. Jeffers and Celine from my
belltower
and I sit there alone
with you and 
Dostoevsky
as the real and the
artificial heart
continues to
falter,
famished…

I love you but
don’t know what to
do.