Coda

I don’t want to write. I just want to dream. I 
want to build a house with planks of a 
thousand moments and mortar of the right 
pitch of dark. I don’t want to breathe. I don’t 

want to blink. I don’t want to tear, or be told 
of the cold. I only want the touch of warm 
blood that never lets the outside in. I want 
the light of the strong side of humanity to 

glow from shingles made of post-punk 
icons. I want to smoke in chambers that feel 
like the lungs of Billie Holiday echoing halls 
of insane asylums. I want to be mad, like 

Bedlam mad in bedrooms that host ghosts 
of heaven and hell. I don’t want be right. I 
don’t want be wrong. I just want to eat the 
ether with a mouth made of stars and 

incisions. I want to be blight and out of orbit, 
only accountable to carpet made from feet 
of water bearers and scorched mystics. I don’t 
want to be a body. I don’t want be a brain. I 

only want energy emanating from fireplaces 
infused with ocean mist and music memory. 
I want French pop from high ceilings deciding 
the fate of intrepid evenings. I want morning 

halls to hear every word no longer in the 
company of closed throats. I don’t want fallen 
angels knocking on half doors of contoured 
occupation. I only want to walk stairs with 

the soul of orphans and aged operatics. I 
don’t want to wear delusion. I don’t want to 
wear defeat. I want to dress in closets made 
from palimony and Madonna’s early 

anthology. I don’t want to write. I don’t 
want to gleam. I just want to drink the 
sweat of fever dreams with démodé 
immortals and all that’s bold and alone.