In this isolated evening
of severe passion
and alcoholism

you spat out the remains
of Hare Krishna
and Rimbaud.

Naturally, I was sickened
and told you to leave.

There are no words anymore,
and, consequently, no love.

I don’t care about you
and if I ever did

it was only because I
was confused, cold,
hungry, tired, and bored.

Let no one try to
tell us again
about the myth of
love, life, and literature.