Dear friend of
ferment,
who unearths the worms
that enrich this blissful human soil,
promising the end of eternal roil:
who unearths the worms
that enrich this blissful human soil,
promising the end of eternal roil:
my revelatory
friend;
dear suicidal
impulse; today
I dream of the
parapets above
A la Vielle
Russie, and
of splattering
near the Plaza
where Woody
Allen wooed young girls,
leaving a bit
of me
on the Strand
Bookstand,
near the park
and the seals —
but this is too
vibrant and real.
Better to find myself alone
in a porcelain tub
with chamomile bath oil
(as if I needed
to be calm;
there is eternity for that),
listening to
Verdi’s Requiem,
holding a
razor, or better
still,
to poison myself with small
scored pills, avoiding
arsenic
and the Bovary traps
of indigestion,
detection;
best with
caplets, red carafes
of wine or Guinness
brew —
(who wouldn’t
want to quaff a few?)
What catharsis there is in the dive,
the gesture, the infinite jest,
the slash, the
brush (its own fire),
the dance with
death?
Ah, this:
as I flirt, you draw near,
chingon to my
chingada
bite my ear,
stop my breath—
who else could
do that?
Te quiero, my Mescal, my
absinthe,
my blue
cyanosing corps, my Mayakovsky,
my you. . .
Was this a mistake? Is it too late . . . ?
You bite my
ear, take up my rear, whisper:
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