Suitors

I have eaten the sweetest Lotus flower.
Reality is an illusion now
like staring at my life on a magazine page,
pinching the center of the paper
and ruching the whole scene
into a crinkled crane.

I toss my reality into the wave
of Kanagawa and watch the paper
dissolve into the water
like so much history,
like so much distortion.

I have no idea how this has become my reality.

Are you happy?
he says.

Happy is subjective to its scene
I say.

I am confused standing
and staring from the tip
of my distorted reality,
from the pinched paper
like mountain gazing.

Drunk with sins,
rippled reality like so many times
I vomited in the toilet
while you watched television.

The illusion is perception.

And I am weaving and weaving
like a sinful Penelope
while you consume
the last of the lotus.

I have unwoven our memory,
destroyed our picturesque tapestry,
threads tangled in the wave of reality.