In the Doorway

I see you standing there

in the doorway, my small demonic self

[as a reflection of me],

What I was thirty years ago.

But, not so, I want to absorb you like Bradley the Buyer

in Naked Lunch, or whoever sneaks up on the spectral grey vapor-like transmission of junk sick to

Steal the soul—"and why can't some horrid character get physical a natural way?"

But this is blather. You're not real; not what I want or desire,

Just an abstraction.

I bend over in my BDUs so you can examine my asshole.