some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer
night, running the blade of the knife
under his fingernails, smiling, thinking
of all the letters he had received
telling him that
the way he lived and wrote about
that--
it had kept them going when
all seemed
truly
hopeless.

putting the blade on the table, he
flicked it with a finger
and it whirled
in a flashing circle
under the light.

who the hell is going to save
me? he
thought.

as the knife stopped spinning
the answer came:
you're going to have to
save yourself.

still smiling,
a: he lit a
cigarette
b: he poured
another
drink
c: gave the blade
another
spin.

stumbling home
in the evening
with my breath
smelling of cheap beer
and cigarettes;
people worry,
I tell them not to;
I do this for me,
not for attention
or sympathy,
I do this to feel
more alive,
because I feel so
dead inside
and my thoughts
are racing;
drinking shuts them up
for a couple of hours
and I feel better;
I feel sick,
but I also feel
great,
like I can do anything;
like nothing can hurt me;
is this what death
tastes like?
god,
I hope so

I could stay drunk for days,
I love the way I can't feel
my legs
or my head
and I can't see
what's in front of me;
I love how I can punch anything
and everything
and not feel it,
and I absolutely love
stumbling home
with ****** knuckles
and laughing at my own
stupidity;
I see inside of myself
when I'm drinking,
I see it all;
all the anger
and the pain,
we don't talk,
just look,
and that is enough,
to know that when I
inform people that there
is so much more to me
than what they see,
and they tell me I'm being
silly,
I know,
I know,
that you exist

I will drown out
Their ignorance
With our love

And I will down
The bread and grape juice
Thinking only of us
Drinking champagne

And as the pastor preaches
I will smile, not frown
Because all I'll hear are your sweet
"I love you's" on repeat

And I'll perk up
When I hear the world "angel"
Because I may be an atheist
And thought I have no God,
I have you
And you're **** close
To an angel

And I will stand
When the band begins to play
Because I'll be thinking of you
Strumming your guitar
Because you're a symphony
And you hush all cacophony  

There will be no tears shed
When I leave this church pew
I'll pay no mind to the fact
That I'm surrounded by people
Who think I'm living in sin

My mom thinks she's "curing"
My love for you
As I radiate in church
But it's only because I'm thinking
Of that girl with blue hair
Who's there for me
When God isn't
And kisses my lips
In public
And her gray eyes
Full of life
Block out any ugly stares
When people look at us
They see two girls kissing
But I see two humans
Deep in love
But apparently it's sin
Just because you're the same gender
As me

And those people in church must think
I'm just like them
And I suppose we at least have one thing
In common:
We'd both fight for our love

I found heaven on earth
In my room last night
All it took was one touch
And I felt myself take flight
And in my solitude  
I don't need anyone else
You may call it sin,
I call it falling in love with myself