Burn after reading.

I used to live
in a city of blood
of wine and fuck
and to Hell
with you
all.

I remember
the way it kept
me warm
the fire that
lust and anger
happily igniting
myself in an orgy
of rebellion.

I used to live
in the bottom
of a bottle
amongst the sentimental
flotsam which collected
together in a protective
shell.

I used to need
to write about it
I used to want to smash
the page the words your face
my heart this world this lack of
revolution this skull drugdery and
drugged old me and slugs we'll be for
eternity if I don't start to curse our comfort
our luxurious malaise our destructive ambition
our ugly dreams of how rich or how beautiful or
even how loved we'll be - I hated that and myself
for wanting it even more than I wrote that the world
around me did - God, I wanted it. And I was never afraid
to ask you in silence in my heart in the dark of the night sads
when the creaks and cracks appeared at the window a pale face
and white eyes and tomorrow's terror and a green backed monster
a broken heart no hope for a house no way forward never going to make it
I can't see the light I fumble for it but instead I grasp a black and velvet nothing
which illuminates by the glow that still lives behind your eyes, my eyes, the eyes of
the monster which cannot finish what it begins.

What I did was
I stood and murdered that
fire at the crashing end of last year
lost the anger amongst the sad and pitiful
slashed the wrists of a common enemy
drowned the fucker in remorse and laid
alone on the grass in mortal repose to wait
and see the shape of today rather than moulding
the clay of tomorrow into yet another worthless urn
of daydreams and hope but all it did that day upon the grass
all it did was rain.

And the brain kept on
never stopping the relentless
analysis and pushing and pushing
its savage critique and never allowing
for error or bliss or chi or tao or Now unless
the fire you see the fire the way to silence the
damnation which The Self flagellates upon my back
the fire the fuck the fall on my feet luck of the Irish the
twinkle the grin the hiding within the never letting you see
the wrong move in a wrong situation which always somehow
becomes alighted excited all fucking righted
in
The End.