I love autumn.
Why?
*Because it shows that dying can be beautiful.

Same ****** mattress
Same ***** white walls
Same pile of unwashed laundry
Same window left ajar

Winters cold wind blows
Hollowing through the trees outside
Something colder and familiar travels on tonight's cold winter chill
It bangs on the ajar window, knocking, no, insisting to come in

It knots the stomach
It Cracks the spine
It Tightens the jaw
It Poisons the mind

Its grip tightens
It whispers memories best forgot
It sends shivers up and down the chest
It laughs as it leaves

Same ****** mattress
Same ***** white walls
Same pile of unwashed laundry
Should really close that **** window.

It's in the heart of the grape
where that smile lies.
It's in the good-bye-bow in the hair
where that smile lies.
It's in the clerical collar of the dress
where that smile lies.
What smile?
The smile of my seventh year,
caught here in the painted photograph.

It's peeling now, age has got it,
a kind of cancer of the background
and also in the assorted features.
It's like a rotten flag
or a vegetable from the refrigerator,
pocked with mold.
I am aging without sound,
into darkness, darkness.

Anne,
who are you?

I open the vein
and my blood rings like roller skates.
I open the mouth
and my teeth are an angry army.
I open the eyes
and they go sick like dogs
with what they have seen.
I open the hair
and it falls apart like dust *****.
I open the dress
and I see a child bent on a toilet seat.
I crouch there, sitting dumbly
pushing the enemas out like ice cream,
letting the whole brown world
turn into sweets.

Anne,
who are you?

Merely a kid keeping alive.

Set fire to my heart,
So my mind can see clearly.

Its ashes be so sparse,
That my judgement isn't cloudy.

Don't let embers fly off like fireflies,
Lest they spark my mind wrongly.

And lastly, please bury its ashes far away,
As its loss, too painful a memory.

No water,
lights;
just her screech,
and that ****** tapping.