still
and the killer is caught,
and his girlfriend weeps
the baby has no chance,
of course,
and the apartment is cold,
the windows loose in their casings,
the grey light of january filling
the rooms like sleeping gas
smell of gasoline,
approach of trains and
then the fade
an abandoned factory in the
center of town
a wreath of dead flowers
hanging on
the fence that surrounds it
something small for the
world to revolve around
[you didnt have to let us go]
or maybe sunday morning in
a nation of random suicides
grey snow on grey silence and
the drugs that help you feel alive
the uncertain kiss of ghosts
the uneasy ghosts of ex-lovers
find a room with not enough air in a
house with too few walls and
know that youre home
believe yourself
to be safe
pretend there are
worse mistakes you
will make in your life
1973, season of starving artists
waits for the kids to fall asleep then
sets fire to the house and
beyond this
theres no plan
beyond god
theres no window
no door
just a mirror on a blood-smeared wall
just a mouth filled with
broken teeth and vomit
dran-o
looks like maybe it wants to scream
but who in this age of
instant gratification has
any time to care?
and who you gonna believe
if not hieronymus?
its a world of monsters
a world of suffering
not pain as a metaphor
but just pain
just the inhuman sound of
screaming babies
ground beneath jackboots
the human laughter of carrion birds
and how the hell are you going to
get the joke if you wont stop
crying long enough
to listen to the punchline?
everybody loves a starving artist once theyre
dead
kid just wants to breathe, right?
just wants to live, wants to gobble down
a handful of molly before his
fathers funeral,
but what if hes 38?
what if hes 52?
always someone telling you
you need to grow up,
but we all spend
most of our lives being wrong
we all have our orders
man at the front desk gives you
a hammer and a shovel
a bag of nails
tells you you gotta vote if
you want a better future
says this whore or that one
and maybe there isnt a punchline
maybe the blood of your enemies
tastes just like the blood of of your lovers
maybe we still have enough
time to finally get our shit together
and its always been such a
small goddamn space
between suicide and joy
a shovel, a grave, a slow dance on the night before the
diagnosis
cant spend the rest of yr life
being too old to fuck in the back seat
cant breathe if
the house is on fire
cant talk about love
because johnston is dead
because everyones gonna
leave you in the end