One lousy soap poem on the mirror

is all he never wrote,

and me,

look at his face through the hyperventilation,

documentary of his suicide slowly blooming,

how they made their applause!

How the they’s encourage the booze and the pain

to medicate their hypocritical contempt,

to numb for moments the lack of feeling in their lives.

Fuck off, seriously, fuck off.

I will toil the fields of language for you until my hands are blistered

And the puss fills my brain.

Seriously, fuck off.

You don’t want any of this,

you can applause from your velvet balconies and return to your homes

and fuck your lovers and use the emotion we paid for in teeth.

The early mornings are the worst, when the black of the night

sticks around until the afternoon, sometimes for days,

and the raccoon mask I wear is not some left over disguise from an orgy.

The only orgy I have ever attended involved me weeping and puking

and shaking the life out of me into my hands holding premature stars.

You ever been there?

I didn’t think so

These words, like all my words, will become your thoughts, for free.

And I give them to you.

And I hate you for it.

And I thank you.

And I weep for you.

And I pray for you.

Pray for me.

Seriously, fuck off.