Every mad man dances
with their shirts spun in the air
the woman in the sky
red wings cradling her back
with stars in her eyes
shouts from the mountains,
“HEAR ME, GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!”

She is ecstatic for the world 
to understand her. 
 
lying in bed, watching the 
winter night turn to 
Spring I feel nothing
for the world between Heaven and Hell. 
 
Hell 
is all we 

eat 
and shit; 
love is like a 
great load of shit: 
it is best flushed 
than remembered. 
 
this poem 
is LOVE,
I told Alice Van Horn. 
 
she laughed. 
 
“let’s get another one then,”
she told me. 
 
I lit a cigarette and nodded. 
 
we went out to the night 
and there we were, drunk off poetry and 
the words of the world
our secret language and love. 
 
“that one there. Let’s get him,” 
she said. 
 
“he’s too pointy nosed and has no passion.
look at him.” 
 
“and that one?” 
 
THAT one, the one she was pointing
at with her eyes, 
had a baby cradled in one arm 
and a baby purse on her shoulder. 
 
“she’ll do.”
 
We got home and
finished our red wine. 
the woman in the sky
with red wings cradled around her 
turned red
and white and red again. 
 
“WHAT IS THIS SHIT?” 
the woman we brought home
said. 
 
“stay calm. Stay cool. We need only
your passion. We need something to work with. It’ll only 
take a moment of your time,” I told her. 
 
“let’s gut her!” Alice pestered. 
 
the woman screamed
and ran 
baby in arm and baby 
purse in right shoulder. 
 
Alice jumped to the door
and threw the woman
to the floor 
and carved at her flesh. 
 
the baby watched in
absent horror. 
 
“DONE.”
 
“Good job. Let’s get to 
work then.”
 
“how should we make this one?” 
she said, blood in her eyes. 
 
“let’s make her a failed mother 
with a broke husband who refuses
to let the bottle go…” 
 
and the night only got better 
after that.