Mar 17
I’m stupid, sick, and small,
sitting on the street beneath a tree,
drunk and frostbitten.
A cop yells from his car at the intersection:
“You can’t sit here!”
My feet are freezing—
I couldn’t buy felt boots—
they don’t sell them at Costco.
A crow swoops in, hops around,
caws, vanishes,
no sound.
I’ve been on psilocybin and Adderall
for two weeks straight.
In my head, little Februaries light lanterns—
bright, rainbow-colored stripes.
I want to go back—
to warmth, to Mommy—
I want to press my lips to her *******,
but she says she’s been dead for a while—
last summer, I think—
and anyway, I’m far too grown
for that.
To renounce the brain, the will,
the oppressive self—
from all that comes at the end,
at the beginning.
I enter the building, wary, cautious,
climb to my floor,
and as I jingle my keys at the door,
the meaning of existence dawns:
there are many women in my life—
it’s complicated!
What if I become one of them—
big, **** *****—
maybe things will get better?
The main thing is—
WHAT?
How do you say it—
the main thing is-
to break free, to escape
from myself,
from the night,
from the darkness.
Anyway.
Hi, people!
I'm corporate MC,
I’m Lucy!
I’m smart, young, beautiful.
After the New Year’s office parties ended,
I became no one’s concern.
Need drives me on—
I don’t want to pay rent.
I’d completely given up, but they revived me—
I ran out of money back at February’s start,
and there’s half a lifetime of struggling,
dragging myself to March.
But deep down, I’m a she-wolf!
I have two sons—
two angels, two handsome boys,
two bloodsuckers.
The younger one will strangle the older
with a vacuum cord,
then rise to consul, emperor,
become the president of Ontario and all adjacent territories.
I won’t die of grief.
Not a chance.
Whatever keeps the kid exited—
so long as he doesn’t hang himself,
doesn’t stir a trouble.
Let him rule the world,
its battles, its shames.
Grant, Oh Lord, to each what they deserve and need—
just let him rule,
and let this February finally yield
to something
meaning
full.
sitting on the street beneath a tree,
drunk and frostbitten.
A cop yells from his car at the intersection:
“You can’t sit here!”
My feet are freezing—
I couldn’t buy felt boots—
they don’t sell them at Costco.
A crow swoops in, hops around,
caws, vanishes,
no sound.
I’ve been on psilocybin and Adderall
for two weeks straight.
In my head, little Februaries light lanterns—
bright, rainbow-colored stripes.
I want to go back—
to warmth, to Mommy—
I want to press my lips to her *******,
but she says she’s been dead for a while—
last summer, I think—
and anyway, I’m far too grown
for that.
To renounce the brain, the will,
the oppressive self—
from all that comes at the end,
at the beginning.
I enter the building, wary, cautious,
climb to my floor,
and as I jingle my keys at the door,
the meaning of existence dawns:
there are many women in my life—
it’s complicated!
What if I become one of them—
big, **** *****—
maybe things will get better?
The main thing is—
WHAT?
How do you say it—
the main thing is-
to break free, to escape
from myself,
from the night,
from the darkness.
Anyway.
Hi, people!
I'm corporate MC,
I’m Lucy!
I’m smart, young, beautiful.
After the New Year’s office parties ended,
I became no one’s concern.
Need drives me on—
I don’t want to pay rent.
I’d completely given up, but they revived me—
I ran out of money back at February’s start,
and there’s half a lifetime of struggling,
dragging myself to March.
But deep down, I’m a she-wolf!
I have two sons—
two angels, two handsome boys,
two bloodsuckers.
The younger one will strangle the older
with a vacuum cord,
then rise to consul, emperor,
become the president of Ontario and all adjacent territories.
I won’t die of grief.
Not a chance.
Whatever keeps the kid exited—
so long as he doesn’t hang himself,
doesn’t stir a trouble.
Let him rule the world,
its battles, its shames.
Grant, Oh Lord, to each what they deserve and need—
just let him rule,
and let this February finally yield
to something
meaning
full.
