I’ll get up today and self-destruct
with no better reason than “because.”
And it’s a practical joke as told by life:
I raise my middle and index finger to my temple,
push down the thumb and mutter “pow”,
forgetting my fingers are loaded.

Kapow.

So, anyway:
My God’s despotic but fits in a pill.
My Daimōn’s neurotic, moves at my will.
And I break my head like wawes
in a place behind my eyes
in a place that has no name
against the platinum door till either gives in
nevereverminding the key’s in place
and there’s a painless way.

And you don’t know what I’m afraid of.
I’m afraid of you knowing what I’m afraid of.
Now you know what I’m afraid of.

I am smoke and I am cinder – I am null and I am void.
I am check and I am mate – I am over and I am out.
I am dust and I am ash – I am bait and I am beast.
I am always a missile headed home.

(You know, every now and then it occurs to me
that people wearing safety orange and bicycle helmets…
they must be the winners of this world.
Must be winners since they’ve concluded
that it’s worth it looking like a fuckface
since they have something to lose,
something they must protect with that rag
they call Life.)

Bury this world in powder and dust,
in a cascade of better bitter pills –
chemical design that kills pain;
and I’ll step downwind of quicklime anger
that erases victimhood and erases fault,
that erases my snakehead and eyes
that are black marble, black fire.

The happiness of others is not the happiness of me
and we are but specks of dust upon specks of dust
that are but specks of dust upon eternity.

Life is an effort of slitting the throat of Fear
each dusk and dawn, all over again.

The drugs don’t work and neither do I.