Through the party in a dark, dreary mansion

Through the party in a dark, dreary mansion,
    I chased her up the slick wooden stairs—
goblins resenting our pouting & passion,
    ghouls in a hurry to stifle our dares—
blue, spare bedroom in a spasm of anguish,
    her clothes came off like rain-fattened mud—
both in a hurry, before we both languish,
    Cheltenham sucking the life from our blood—

how can I say this is where I've settled,
    trying to capture the pain of my youth—
fever & fear & despair in a kettle,
    diamonds on parasites, burying truth—
poetry lives past the sky's limpid ceiling,
    frequencies caught for a moment, & hung—
Cheltenham lived in a dungeon of feeling,
    which I've made eternal, as Stacy's quick tongue—