Such a saint but such a whore

Peter, look at me now,

walking by the canals at dawn, 

pockets half-empty,

altering puff, 

I reworke your history, your humanity, 
I forget the roots you have 

so vigorously sown into me.
Peter, have you neglected our candid syndrome? 
Counting sheep and coins 
fairy-tale chronicle,
I walk and reach

the familiar confined four walls 
the coffee stained rug welcomes, accumulating dead cells, evoking your footsteps,

three-quarters boiling water, fourth cold, 

Is it midnight already? 

Still, a dirty mug awaits me, 

the ashtray next to it,
youthful remote L’haim. 
Here’s your cup.

Could you check the curtains?

The closet doors?
I swear the iron teeth man awaits me. 
Too late now.

Time soiled in oncology and notes on the breast, 

spoiled ovaries.
Would you help me with another back flip? 

Runny nose
Ah, Ha.

Peter, the DSM cannot be our bible.
Kick me in with pharma bam bam in the tam tam
Clickidy click on the keyboard pornhub
Dot
Com
Did I advertise the well-known? 

Another line goes.

cringe,

I recall. 

Thesis: used to clench your face in such particularity. 
a lost youth
the method we took
the steps 
the proof
the first clause
entails the second
conclusion:
Less spit on your face and more on the pillow.