November 23 2007, Again – Cash Compson

January 10, 2023

Entering the morning like a slaughterhouse, leaving all the

teeth and fingers. Guts all over your floor. You told me once

that nobody loves anybody and I didn’t believe you. You’re gone

now. Elsewhere is the word. Suicide is on the morning as I eat it. 

 

You were god-perfect when I met you, flakes of heavensky 

in your highlights when I couldn’t have you. Then love. You didn’t 

tell me what would happen after.

 

Do you ever wake to that century of winter 

and wonder if it all happened? If you’re living your own life

or just gnawing on the carcass of another’s?

 

If waking up is yet another thing we were trained to do while doing other things?

 

Meaning a lot until it means 

nothing. Groundhog Day with the Seroquel. Lithium to make

your tongue taste like metal. Just make me fat

with all that hate. Your cherubic slut. To fill the world with plastic, bubbles.

 

When I tried to find a crease

to crawl back through. Stained glass

bigger than the steeple. Choke on leather,

eat a bullet. Being drunk is the only way

I find His embrace.  I feel nothing and

that’s because we washed my recollections. Or I died that day. 

But not every day. 

 

That’s important.

 

I’m drinking coffee and smoking everything you ever

smoked and the sky is November slaughter, vermillion soak, and the night is forever and

the people who loved me have sung

a different moment into play and I truly,

yes, deadened and percussive, I know that no one is coming for me.