So I dip this pen in arsenic to write a song for every president that, won't ever get shot in the face.

I had my hands pinned down, like

those insects entomologists study

gripping tightly to the rough edges of the

mattress.  I was laying like you had before

when I had stood at the foot of the bed,

my arrogance aloft - though you never

batted an eyelash.  We had met at 

the republican headquarters,

as time travelers who disagreed

with the state of affairs.  You were

something like Galatea, one hell of a girl.

We could sparsely hold a conversation.

But now, in our time-space continuum 

bedroom I found myself unable to move,

or breath.  It was something beautiful, like

being choked or hundreds of pigeons dying

in mass extinction.  I hadn't forgotten about your

eyes, though I hadn't seen them in something like

four days.  If I were a butterfly in this entomology

lab, you had not only pins but sutures along

with my fears and pains and dreams, my sickness

to use as tools with those black latex gloves on.

You knew love was a sickness in me, and

I love to be sick.