obligatory best friend/death poem #153

obligatory best friend/death poem #153

I hope that when you die, they shred what’s left of your throat with menthol turpentine;

and in the strips of your esophagus they find a billion bullets bleeding and slipping

down the slopes of bad stories and strange secrets, and the scars from a heinous laugh.

And I hope that when I die, I smell so bad they need a mask and cut from a distance;

and in the core of my cockles they find a vial of shit and a cummings and Stein casserole oozing with repetition and parentheses, and the thrill in never knowing how to read.

I hope that when we’re both dead, nobody says it’s a shame because it’s probably a sham;

and maybe you’re off finger painting with your vomit and I’m playing tricks on my soul

or maybe we’re both off somewhere being dead and shitting in mouths as they sleep.

3:31 PM - 7/20/2006 - post comment