Click desperation

early afternoon,
35^o C outside, too
humid to breathe.

drinking strong coffee,
smoking stale cigarettes,

churning up sex stories with the
hope of finally
making an income
and escape the net of poverty.

all I need is a
bottle (or 3) of
cold, white wine to

soothe my aching soul and calm down my racing mind.

can’t sleep, can’t eat;
can hardly breathe.

scribbling awful stories designed
for the masses;

I smell and even taste the wine
in vivid daydreams of
past days, where
bluebirds sat on my windowsill
and
chirped songs of sorrow.

unlawful (and unnatural)
relationships that shaped
a past that was
thrown into the infernal pits
of the poet’s greatest work.

I dream of other places, of
other women in my arms,
lips as of yet unkissed
brushing against mine.

the sex stories do well, they get
positive comments and reviews;
no money yet but building an
audience nowadays is more important than
bleeding out your liver for every page typed.

I need the wine to remain
sane; I yearn for
the click, the glorious sound
of satisfaction that engenders an
orgasmic euphoria of feeling, finally, alright.

coffee is a
temporary solution;
tobacco cannot
replace weed.

the wine somewhere
from afar
calls; again and
again.

click.
I’m going insane.

mad with lust.
no one to kiss,
nothing to drink.

click.
for years I chased dragons
in flaming meadows

now I’m the
one being chased by a
mad dragon, the desperate
desire for the supernal
click.