Memories, Never Mine.

I’m pissed at God, but tell me who has not been,
and because I dream, my skull surfs in torrents

Do not tell me what I was.

Do not tell me what I was
to redraw that cold war face,
to see a woman of what I bleed

It would always end this way.

In a dream
be it my monster
in the eyrie of leave-taking
be it my death

I don’t know whose granting wishes these days
Some sorry self-elect,
Maybe no one, maybe God.