my bet is

that he and i still share

the same dreams

of thailand’s sweetest gift:

fields swaying red

in the breeze

diluting us down to

zero…

it bites into our sides

for attention

spreads us naked

on dirty sheets

begs us for mercy

with each probe and stroke…

 oblivion’s  gates of iron

open

beckoning to us

with silent screams

 and whispers

in the night

just a little, just a taste…

its our poison

his and mine

it feeds on our weakness

sneaks in when longing

and relief cries out

for a necessary distraction..

our lust for poppy-fire

and its smallish

more available

oval flames

will kill the pain

perhaps its key

to salvaging the art

while it

murders us

in the process…