|||
and can we maybe not
die for a change,
and can we maybe stay pure?
can the drugs actually work
for a change? and this is what it
sounds like he says or this is what she
hears and then the baby is gone
then the days start to grow colder
no sound in the first frostbit light of morning
but the song of your lover crying
no houses but the ones that
burned down when you were a child
neighborhood kid with a bucketful of
gas-soaked rags and his father’s zippo and it
feels so fucking good to laugh
stack up the bodies like firewood
sing your favorite or maybe
something by the stones,
’71, ’72,
something grimy and despairing and
why the hell did we even stay here? is what
he asks her and what is it she
says in response?
where is it she runs to
when he turns away?
there is nothing more pure than
the fine art of disappearing
a nation of ghosts,
and they all wish you dead and
sooner or later
it’s gonna happen
can’t be 1994 forever, okay?
can’t waste yr whole life
being pissed at yr father because
what was he actually guilty of?
had you pegged for all the
things you weren’t
not a poet,
not a suicide,
not a killer of politicians,
and so what, then?
fucker knew a failure
when he saw one
looked in the mirror and
saw you standing behind him
taught you how to make a
fist and then the
taste of blood when he
landed the punch
warmth of sunlight as you
leaned back against the car
asked you if you wanted
another and
all you could do was laugh
