Through the party in a dark, dreary mansion,
I chased her up the slick wooden stairs—
goblins repulsing our pouting & passion,
ghouls in a hurry to stifle our dares—
blue, spare bedroom in a spasm of anguish,
her clothes came off like rain-fattened mud—
both in a hurry, before we both languish,
Cheltenham sucking the life from our blood—
how can I say this is where I've settled,
trying to capture the pain of my youth—
fever & fear & despair in a kettle,
diamonds on parasites, burying truth—
poetry lives past the sky's limpid ceiling,
frequencies caught for a moment, & hung—
Cheltenham lived in a dungeon of feeling,
which I've made eternal, as Stacy's quick tongue—
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