and the Stars. looking down at this
boiling pit
smile softly,
wickedly,
murmuring to each other
do they know we see them? do they see us?

and the Earth, groaning
as she turns,
mutters
*do they see each other?

why do these men dance
as if they own themselves?
as if these dances make them gods--as if
they are not fleas, deliriously
basking in the flames
of mortality;
mayflies.

i just want to be invited to the funeral.
i'll buy a new suit. sunday best.
take the train to london
by myself. take some time to reflect.
stand at the back if that's better
i'll probably avoid meeting your family
because i'll still feel guilty.
about romanticising my own suicide
and telling you death was beautiful,
when i knew that you were just as unhealthy
as me. i was a black miasma.
noxious laughing gas.
i'll bring flowers for your coffin
if they survive the train ride.
the last thing i said to you was
how i felt like falling in love
so i could cultivate a broken heart
and finally **** myself,
you were always one step ahead.

there is ice cream in your hair again, it's strawberry like last summer and pink like broken plastic
there was a pretty boy on 38th street, he made me laugh because i used to think i could only love a six-petaled rose or a green garbage truck. but there he was & i think i might grow old
you hate when i complain, don't you, but that's okay because she'll always kind of make me want to die, or move to venice. either way i wouldn't get to see you again & i guess that's supposed to be sad.

hey isaac, it's good to have you back. i think we both changed a lot, you're a little dizzier now and im a lot less purple. i still can't give you my address because they repainted the old house. isaac, it's such an ugly shade of (beige?) now- it makes me want to forget the last four years. they cut down the juniper trees, too, i saw the dead flowers and i didn't cry
i don't think ill ever grow out of the shower or the floorboards. ill sit here forever, waiting for cement blocks & burning hair & suffocation

you're never too young
to have dead friends.
we take it in turn to read
every headline and obituary
just in case you turn up
while the police are out searching
for your body.
we tracked you to a train station
at five fourty five am this morning,
clearly leaving.
we'd spoken on the phone
for as long as i'd known you
but now dial tones don't
mean anything.
i'm almost certain every photograph that
you ever sent was of a different person
so who am i supposed to miss
and which face will i mourn?

i like to see how far the razor
can reach underneath my skin
before i pass the callouses
and slip into my bloodstream.
i'm a fountain of youth
with leaks and bruises
where the years come seeping
out slowly. and if only you'd notice
you could grab hold of it
and squeeze the life right out of me.
perhaps into a glass flask and burner
and let it bubble away on your workbench
find out why it didn't sit right inside me
and how you can harness its energy
so i can give back to the earth
instead of ******* all my days away
playing with my blood.