NOTE: My Mother believes this poem to be disingenuous.
My pain fills my brain,
Like gasoline in a tank, ready to alight into a deep blue everlasting flame, shame eternal,
blame paternal, my weakness and cowardice tower over and collapse into my towering inferno.
These memories, these living image memorials that plague my shattered child, go to tombstones and syrah, exploding knife-corked wine – blood dripping on the ceiling, walls of white, and the horrific dolls with stitches that fight – stationary like they have arsenic plus AIDS they’re smoking in a pipe, keep the fire cooking and keep the pain overlooked, I’m sucking up smog and looking for answers but the answer man is overbooked so I shall wait another day.
A year or 10 ago a cage and no food, men hired by my mommy to keep me in a disassociated mood to cope, this is before I found dope, but before that I was kidnapped at 16 with handcuffs and steel chain rope by two massive man machines with evil in their eyes that gleamed and screamed with fists that careened into my spleen everytime – everytime it seemed, the tendons from fighting the cuffs in my left wrist just smashed to smithereens.
Hear my song, it’s nothing beautiful, no flowers blooming, no cuisine even slightly consumable and not much amusable but eat these words if you know what I mean, I’m a man but I feel like I’m fift-fucking-teen, whining for pharmaceuticals I’ve pledged to kick, I’m meant to get hit by the lightning the devil spits and when the devil spits he spits in your eye and when he spits in your eye you end up blind and you cry and when you end up blind crying you can’t see shit you’re in the darkness alone forever broken bones bathed in piss hearing him upstairs hiss as you’re alone forever, emaciated and dying.
No wreath on this grave, nameless, stinking and rotting underneath a cave, never blameless always careless calling people that I loved names, from the grave, that I wouldn’t call a dime cent hooker that was on call like a doctor, my father, the medicine man without the medicine that I care to bother with, so I thought with this I could get some exorcise but the truth of the matter is I am destined for some horrifying thing that is worse than to die.
I accept my fate, and those are rough pills to swallow, but I love pills as much as I hate myself and it’s not like I can fly away from all this sewage and decay like a swallow, so I’ll swallow whatever you give me, please just make it hit me, I want the violence in drug form every time I drug mourn, so give me some love in the right kind of way, some booze some dope and some fucking cocaine, because I don’t give a fuck about myself, sometime today I heard myself being called selfless, even though I torture everything in my proximity with the vengeance that hell gets and the retaliation of when multiple shrapnel filled shells hit, so fly away little bird and go find your flower, I’m just sitting here waiting for the right kind of hour – I died the other night, 2,000 milligrams of oxycodone but you wouldn’t know unless you know what it feels like to truly moan and when you scream bloody, disentangled rage out of your ribcage than come talk to me and maybe we can engage, yes maybe we can know each others names but really it’ll just be the same blame shame game ritual so pitiful we’ll vomit like bulimics and act like nothing of this is literal and we’ll argue about who has the sickest flu, version 1 or 2. (I have 2)
I’m writing this tonight because I threw up a fight but it wasn’t a fight it wasn’t even a bite, I’m a weak junkie with a heart made of paper and I am cruel and unusual much like the constitutional statement, I hurt my family, because they fucked up in the past and put me in places where I lost my mind or could have lost the dignity of my ass, I can’t take much more, because this won’t stop – my head is an engine, built stock, high horsepower with lots of speed and I just keep driving until I hit the happiest looking tree, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but if you have pain well I do too and if your pain drives you to hurt the ones you love most, come close to these words and observe the pain roast I have reserved for myself but that pain I claim as my own is really not, no, it’s really a clone, it really only burns my family, my mom, dying of pancreatic cancer and my father who saved me from ending myself on Saturday with CPR and some training as a doctor and so this is who we are and nothing like death could be prompter.
Who I am? I don’t know, let me try to elucidate that hole. A devil with an angel’s halo, the angel screaming for it back like a banshee in the night, she can fight as she fights but I will spite her beauty with all my might, my hatred for myself is palpable and grand like a piano and I create concertos that no one can listen to or handle.
Gloom blooming and I am still fuming because I am rarely, if ever, capable of exhibiting the becoming’s of a human.