I’m sick and tired, my love,
of the heroin shot,
of the needle, power-poised,
the shot of power.
I had tried it for years,
I wanted power, control
over my lovers,
I wanted to lead,
to have my lovers
at my beck and call,
my chief delight
how they made me feel,
spring and summer’s
shimmering zeal,
the fruit of power
in my veins…
My love, you’re like me:
the world blossoms, seems to blossom,
in the light of power felt,
and begins to wilt
through a lover’s resistance,
when a lover walks away…
Are you not tired, my love?
Does the power game
not have a worn-down,
wrinkled face?
Shall we not let it go, let it go,
not submit to a pale
imitation of life?
Let’s not fuss over “rights”,
over what one gives or ought to give,
but toss all that garbage away –
in short, can we begin to live?
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