Will Be Alone With The Gods
worry about rejection, Taylor.
been rejected before,
isn’t the poetry that makes
nights cold as winter under the sheets,
makes the girls with mouths like roses,
bodies like sunset,
bodies like thunder,
knocking on your door.
smoked twenty five cigarettes tonight,
you saw all the beer.
whiskey sets my soul furiously ablaze,
it’s not the poetry that mutes the phone:
the stale fluctuating factors,
text from an old lover,
psychologist scribbling on paper.
phone has only rung once:
Robert D. Lyons has absolutely no clue where his life is going…