it’s wild—

you’ve spilt a spell
            beneath yourself
that you can never retrieve—

the details don’t matter,
what you’ve dreamed of
            never mattered

so just lie awake

your desk cluttered, your
            make-up fake
redundant as it ever has been
resplendent as you are

reaching for the stars
in any way possible
            without an anchor or a chain

sleeping sleeplessly
            (sleepy hollow sleepy hollow)
whence you find a better pen;

a better man (or woman)
reclaiming a head
            you can’t make sense of

until it’s grotesque in
            a jar—afar and appalled,
pickled like the rest
            of ’em (pickled and pruned)—

and ahh—
            Almighty Blah

finally (really, this is what
            it’s come to?
this is what it takes?

of course it is [you knew it
            when you blew it all along]):

            change.

(Venus is the pentacle,
            and she still watches over you
            [albeit from a comfortably
unsafe distance], her maniacal screams
            confused for laughter—

            harmful and harmless, regardless)