suicide factory,
6 a.m.,
and rothko is always
waiting at the door
has his pills and his
ideas about transcendence
wants to paint you
in shades of black and
grey
wants me to listen to the
sound of
razor blades through bare
flesh
calls it music and he
calls it holy and
what matters here is that
i am
less than i was
when you and i were
together
what matters here is the
possibility
that the pale blurred
sunlight
of my childhood might
return
that the dead lawns up
and
down this bitter street
are
nothing more than
premonitions
after fifteen years of
february
i am ready to start
breathing again
No comments:
Post a Comment