Love's Young Brother

It’s so sad to think of the bother
we had put ourselves through to
keep our raft afloat, to keep our fling
in motion,
to keep Love’s young brother alive,
like some twisted Frankenfucker,
as he jactitated in a swamped bed
in a rented room
(not unlike poor Tesla).
The same room where I was
regularly greeted by canned laughter.

It was too late for him,
after four days in the tomb.
The opiates, the wires and drips,
the Lazarushian tricks – it only prolongs certainty.
Only a blood-sucked fool would have tried to
save him.

(Hahahaha!
- there it is again.)

We would carry on as if
he wasn’t there, as if
he wasn’t lying in the corner of the room,
penniless and pallid,
next to the X-ray tubes.

You liked to touch
the dials on the life support,
tweak the wires.

After too long, I reached down
over his trembling frame,
his watery eyes meeting mine,
removed the pillow from beneath
his head and held it
to his face.