the unholy plight of a saint named Ellen

i have a dozen happy psychosis
in little orange plastic bottles
with child-proof locks i can not open
with wet hands, sore hands, dry hands
or your hands. It is your smile as I try
that cracks them and me open like ostrich egg
thick shelled and pounds of snot-like
albumen draining to your feet
so that you might slip and fall
right into the most unappealing parts
of me.

i divide them up into the easier
box for daily use: morning paranioa
monday
wednesday
friday
(every other sunday, if God Fucks me over)

evening grandeur -- all but saturday
when there is plenty of that
in my single malt and cuban.

oh my insomnia
that is for every day
at 2am, when
i should be asleep
a leap away from monsters
and spiraling dreams of infinite despair.

i carefully recap
the bottles, the shattered
shell of me and clean
the whitest parts
from your shoes
with kisses

in your hard, clean, clear
undrugged eyes, i know my madness
ahh yes, my madness is our love.

this psychosis, i take
constantly
by IV drip