sailor, who are you?

the insomnia makes me sad

oh what does that mean

oh what do any of my poems mean

i write love poems

i write sad poems

i write poems when i can’t write stories

i write stories i can’t get published

i write stories about lovers

i write stories about sad people

the insomnia gets me so down

the insomnia gets me so down

oh what does that mean

oh what does this mean

i should be on some form of medicine

better than alcohol

i should be on some form of medicine

better than love after love after love

and i am very tired of sex

and love. i think i’m tired of that. i think i’m tired of that.

the insomnia makes me so blue

the insomnia makes me so blue

oh you know what i mean

oh everyone knows what i mean

oh what am i saying

oh why am i talking

i get so chatty

i get so blue

i get so tired

i get so confused

insomnia, insomnia

i don’t sleep

at all

and it’s making me 

i wrote a few poems for you

maybe more than a few

a couple when i knew you,

a couple when i was losing you,

a couple now that you’re gone.

“rainbow girl,” i called you that, 

“heartflow girl,” that too, cause it rhymed

a few other made-up names or 

inspired ones. never the nick-name i had for you

never your real name i never used

never the little things i called you because

some of them i have forgotten

and some of them

i don’t want anyone but us to know.

we were never anything.

well, we were friends

but always on the edge of more than that.

we were never more than that

well, maybe we could have been.

maybe we never could have been.

i listened to a sad song or two, probably by david bowie

on some flight somewhere a few months ago

and i thought, “that’s it

she’s gone. i’m over it, i’m past her.

it’s okay. it’s really all okay. i’m glad it was what it was

and it’s over. and i’m okay.”

and i listened to a sad song or two today

probably by elliott smith

and i thought of you again

and i thought of the names i called you that only you and i know

the ones you’ve probably forgotten

and i’m beginning to forget, too

i thought of the time i almost kissed you

and i didn’t, just to mess with you

and how ironic that was now.

i thought of you and i thought of when i first met you

and i came up with a nick-name for you

i thought of the last time i saw you 

and i smiled too late - you had already passed

and how fitting that was now.

rainbow girl, i’ve been thinking of you

though you moved away

rainbow girl, i’ve been thinking of you

though i messed it all up

rainbow girl, i’ve been thinking of you

though we were never anything

and that’s because of me.

rainbow girl, i’ve been thinking of you and though there’s nothing to do

i’ve been missing you.

and since i was fourteen, i’ve been planning to die at twenty-four

and reaching that now, i’m not planning to stick around much longer

and i’ve been thinking, “is this really it?

is this going to be the year i go?

is this really it?

all of me

all of it all

all at an end?

whatever happened to her?”

i’m a dumb guy and i always thought i’d have a second chance

at everything - childhood, high school, college

my friends, my family, my lovers

every day, thinking “well, i’ll do it better tomorrow”

every moment with you, thinking “we’ll take our time” -

rainbow girl, if i’d have known

i would have kissed you.

here’s hoping, one way or another,

this is the last love poem i write for you

and here’s hoping, one way or another,

maybe it isn’t.

rainbow girl, 

how long can you avoid yourself?

hints of you in the places you’ve been

memories of yourself filling up your apartment

spotting yourself around the corner,

you cross the street.

how long can you ignore yourself?

hanging up the phone on your own voice

staying inside so you don’t see yourself

forgetting you know yourself

pretending you never met yourself

killing yourself

time

and time

again

how long can you call yourself “dead”?

how long ago did you stop believing it

how long did your self-hatred last 

before it wore off and 

a new form replaced it?

what’d you do with all your mirrors?

what’d you do with all your pills? what happened to all your drugs

your booze

your friends

your room

yourself?

how long will you pretend to be dead

how long will you stick around the funeral

how long before you realize

the only way to get rid of yourself

is a joint suicide

or a marriage?

how long will you last? 

how long will you rot? how long can you cover up

there is no glory

to killing yourself after high school

there is no storied

end to your pain

just wrist-slashed hands

reaching to the sky

just booze-tinged mouths

calling out 

“oh god

are we really all so alone

oh god

are we really all so alone?”

you get older and realize

“i should have done it sooner”

you get older and realize

you will never be so brave

as those boys and girls

we lost when we were young

those suicide cases

we lost alongside childhood.

you get older and cry out

“oh god

we are all so alone

oh god

we’ve all ended up so alone.”

with bandages

and bloody sinks

and no one left to cry for you

with alcohol

and drug habits

and no one left to stop you

you get older

and see

life rape the ones you love

you get older

and see

the pain what’s left behind

by those brave kids we lost

and cut ourselves for

by those brave kids we lost

and drink to sleep for

by those brave kids we lost

and for the brave kid we were

wrist-slashed hands,

booze-tinged mouths,

crying out alone to a ghost

“please help me,

it’s so lonely

living on

mother’s name or father’s name or

the one on your fake i.d

the college you dropped out of or the one you applied to

the one you dreamed of and the high school you left

your first girlfriend or your last one

the one who left you or the one you broke

the beers by your garbage can

the whiskeys on your window sill

the way the knives are always too dull

and your grip

knows what’s best.

i am a hesitation wound

and a series of bad photographs i’d like erased.

never perfecting your signature 

still remembering your parent’s

cutting off your family

cutting off your friends

cutting off the future

and cutting off all those people who said 

“hey, man, it’s going to be okay.”

talking only to the coke you spit up in the sink

talking only to the blinds you draw down

talking only to old text messages

talking only to your favorite porno films

i am a hesitation wound

and there’s a lot of me

and we’re a series of bad years 

we’d like forgotten.

slashing your wrists or crashing your car

puking it up or never eating at all

crying to your friend or calling them a whore

draining the bottle or buying more.

you’re running low on cigarettes

and running low on lighter fluid.

i’m running low on cigarettes

and running low on space in the garbage.

we are both hesitation wounds

we are beginning to blend

with our other sad-fuck counterparts

a series of sad fucks who can’t honestly say

they’d like to be 

forgotten.

too scared of the doorknob or the window

and our hands know better than

to let us make our own decisions

we’re running low on cigarettes

and the world’s running low on skin left

for hesitation wounds

we’re running low on years left

it’s best to forget the night before

kill the hang-over, bury the phone calls

turn off your phone and cut off your brain stem

it’s best to forget the night before

if you can forget every sunrise you’ve ever seen

the next one’ll be just as pretty as the first.

don’t mind how much you’ve been drinking

just mind

how you’ll pay for the next.

it’s best to forget the night before

cause it hurts to remember the night before

and you made a lot of mistakes

and if you can forget every mistake you’ve ever made

the next one’ll hurt just as much as the worst

and at this point

you’re pretty sure you deserve to hurt.

sunrise sunset sunrise sunset

same as the first

forget the last

i’m twenty-four and living

despite my best attempts; the coke habit is growing

and i’m a year older than eddie murphy

when he did “Delirious”

which is how i used to decide when i should succeed

and lermentov got killed in a duel at twenty-four

which is how i’ve always decided when i should die

succeeding at neither, i am twenty-four and living

the coke habit is growing

and soon eddie murphy will be dead as lermentov

and i’ll be here, hopped up on coke

watching “Delirious”

we got drunk and laughed and they ordered a lot of different food 

from their respective time periods

and i just sort of smiled and laughed

drunk and laughing and in awe at all of them.

they asked me,

“how long till you can join us?”

i didn’t know what to say

i blushed and

smirked and i was sorta drunk

so i smiled and laughed

they laughed too

and they repeated

“how long till you can join us?”

i didn’t know what to say

so i ordered another round of drinks

for me and all my worn out books

and all the quotes my heroes left me

and all the years ahead of me

that they became big heroes

and all the years ahead of me

i had to drink more

and me and my heroes smiled and laughed

and just as one of them - one of those old legends -

started to say something i said “ah ah!

how about another round of drinks?”

and there was a big cheer

we all drank we got really drunk

and there was this big cheer

from the air conditioner breaking

and this huge clammer of the dishes in my sink

and a big, hearty laugh

from all my heroes

in my worn out books

strewn all across the floor

and i ordered another drink

he’s a successful man

and he looks successful, too

he’s a successful man and he is very tall

he is very golden, he is very blue-eyed, he is very strong

and he hurt my girl

fucked my girl, beat my girl

slapped my girl and scarred my girl

and she cries still.

he is a successful man

headed to further success

and one day it’ll read in some grand magazine

that this successful man has succeeded indeed

he’ll be much richer, much better than me

and he’ll be more golden, more happy than me

he fucked my girl, he beat my girl, too

slapped her and hurt her and scarred her real deep

that when i said i loved her she said “wait a while

i’m hurting real bad and i’ll need some time to heal”

and now she loves me and i love her too

she’s happy most nights, i hold her so tight

but sometimes the scent of success on the air

comes through some old, forgotten door and 

she cries still.

he is a successful man

and he will never be punished.

he is a successful man 

and he could break me in two.

he is so successful and he is so golden

all his good parts just what she deserved

that i can not provide.

all his bad just what she didn’t

that i’ll never provide.

and if i see him i’ll kill him

twice my size, twice my gold, thrice all my little success

and he’ll kill me before i can get far

but by god he needs to hurt 

he needs to bleed, he needs to scar

he needs to hurt, he needs to weep

he needs to realize what he did to the girl i love, he needs to realize 

what he did to a girl

who loved him.

he needs to hurt but he never will

golden, tall, blue-eyed and scot-free,

he will only

i’ll be prettiest dead

you can catch me when i’m not looking

when i’m not thinking

when i’m not anything, when i’m

you can catch me dead

and i’m pretty

then i’ll blink, i’ll shake my head, i’ll look around me

i’ll spread my dumb gap tooth smile, my eyes will light up again

blood will start pumping 

and you’ll think

“that’s a heart that shouldn’t be working.”

i’ll be prettiest dead

deep down below the ground

it’ll be an open casket funeral

and everyone will come by and cry

give me roses

give me kisses

wish me well

and say, “oh, he is so pretty.”

and think, “oh, he is

so pretty dead.”

i’ll be prettiest dead

they won’t even be able to close the casket

they’ll hesitate to bury me

for once, they’ll not want to be rid of me

too pretty to get rid of

just dead enough

finally dead enough

prettiest dead, prettiest dead

they’ll put me in the ground and then they’ll cry,

“god, it’s such a shame

he was always 

since he was born

prettiest dead.”

here’s a heart 

your jawline can’t save your life

and those good looks won’t cure your depression

nothing will cure your depression

and no one will save you

no matter how many times they fuck you.

do you snort coke?

are you a lightweight?

do you cheat and

is it really cheating

is it really cheating come on and

i think your scars are sexy.

no one will save you

but i can give you a place to sleep tonight

a body to hold

and an orgasm for the dopamine

the drugs stopped giving you.

does it still hurt?

does it still hurt, baby?

do you still miss

the ones who died

and are you still mourning

what lived with reluctance?

come a little closer,

just a little closer, baby

no one will save you

i just might kill you

but i can give you something to hold tonight

waking up will be just as hard

but going to sleep might come easier.

that’s what your good looks will get you

and it’s more than most that die

but not half as much as those who live.

are you still hurting, baby?

are you still hurting?

hold me close till you

i wrap my arms about myself, snake them along myself; i break down gently.

the webbing you have left on your wrists

your frenetic pattern of blood-letting

i bang my head against the frame, i bury my break-down deep in the pillows; i have begun screaming

the webbing you have left on your wrists

the red that paints the bathroom sink

i am collapsing, you are collapsing, the bits and pieces of the house we built together are collapsing; it is like it is raining and i am falling

the webbing you have left on your wrists

that extends all over the room till we are like spiders

and like spiders spread ourselves, break spindly legs, crush between the smallest things, leave a mess where we

died.

you have made the most horrible art

you have brought about the most horrible parts of me

i love you

and i will love you and love you

as you bleed

as i bleed you

as you catch me and kill me

the kinky sex you’re into is leaving you scars

which you like, but which make you think :

“This is probably bad in the long run.”

you college drop-out, you beautiful failure

you unwashed greaseball, you pretty garbage beneath the lamppost

the high’s so good you don’t mind that you puke whenever you do cocaine

and the way it numbs you mean it doesn’t burn coming up

but it does make you think :

“This is probably bad in the long run.”

the 2 liters of coke are slowly becoming a grand military by your trash

which overflows, which turns into a bag beside it

and the empty bottles of Captain Morgan are getting harder to hide when your family comes over

you drink to sleep and you don’t mind because you like doing both

but the way it takes more every night is beginning to make you think :

“This is probably bad in the long run.”

your friends are all disappearing but you’re more introverted, anyway

your depression’s getting worse but it’s good for your poems

you’re getting less faithful but you were always a slut

it’s your fourth christmas crying but you hate the holidays anyway

alone with your fellow pretty losers, you’re probably thinking :

“This is probably bad in the long run”

but with a smile and some spiked egg-nog, we’re all beautifully shouting

the coke lump in the back of my throat is speaking up

and the shnapps and the talk and the coke and the loud loud sniffles won’t quiet him

he’s getting louder

and starting to say all the words i’ve heard before

which taste like wombs and elementary schools and how smart you were supposed to grow up

the coke lump in the back of my throat demands to be heard

and he won’t shut up

he won’t give up

till i’m off the coke and open my eyes to see i’m back in school

till i’m seven years old again, till i take back my virginity

till i apologize, till i take it all back

the coke lump in the back of my throat wants me to throw him up so he can see sunshine

so i set my coke lump free

and set him free

set him free

set him free

till there’s a pile of vomit on the floor

djarum blacks as we sat in cemeteries and got to know each other,

got to know the graves till we were regulars;

the lovely clove scent i so associate with you.

camel blues and starving in my shitty apartment

and you coming over and feeding me; hearing me curse that i’d barefooted crushed

another pack of camel blues lying amongst my scattered clothes.

chesterfield 100’s, marlboro blacks

and chainsmoking as we drove endless country roads to think off all the bad thoughts we’d been thinking, lose them in the endless black country roads

and the fields that scared us

our mixing smoke and our growing agoraphobia.

parliaments and a pack of nat’s

splurging on expensive smokes to compliment the fancy bourbon we’d lifted

getting drunk, draining the whole fancy bottle and the whole fancy pack

packs

maybe more

till we switched back to cheap shit

sitting amongst our smoke, our drunken haze and

being in love.

addicted to nicotine and a general decadence

to lose ourselves in

to love in

too many cigarettes

too few ways

to let you know i love you.

thank you for all the cigarettes.

thank you for all of it.

i smell lovely clove

wait until you’re feeling it

wait until it really hits

you feel it in your bones

more than that, your heart

and it affects how you see things

then let it go

and run for the hills

love her and love her and love her

and love her till you feel her in your bones

more than that, your mind

love her till she affects how you see things

then let it go

and run for the hills

grieve for her till you crack

grieve for her till your bones break, too

more than that, your heart

and grieve for her till your grief is all you can see

then let it all go

and run for the hills

and don’t stop running

till you start to really feel it

all over

all over again

liquor and women

that’s all i want

that’s all i like

i don’t want anything

but liquor and liquor

and women and women

i want liquor

any kind

and i want women

who dazzle me

the liquors change

by what’s available

the women change

by whats new and beautiful

i want nothing

i like nothing

i feel absolutely no desire

to live but for

to drink liquor

and tear my heart over more pretty girls

i write poetry

dad wrote poetry

he ended up nothing

i write poetry

mom wrote poetry

she ended up nothing

i write poetry

my parents wrote poetry

they ended up dead

i love liquor

i love women

my parents loved both and

they are dead!

they are dead!

they died long ago and now

they are dead!

they are dead!

and i’m just like them and i

wanna be dead!

i wanna be dead!

i don’t want anything but i

wanna be dead!

i wanna be dead!

the world is beautiful

and there’s so very much to see

go to a party or

fall in love

and look at the stars

you’ll see the world is beautiful

the world is beautiful

the world is beautiful and there’s so much to see

but some of us want none of it

but the pretty girls

some of us want none of it

but to get drunk again

some of us want none of it

BUT TO KEEP FUCKING SMOKING!

and some of us want none of it

but to be dead

to be dead

to be dead

to be dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead

the world is so fucking beautiful