Photograph by Michael J. Sullivan, 2010*

Listen up, you little *****, and let me
teach you a thing or two.  See this skull here,
poised and serene?  How do you know it’s poised?
It’s dead, for Christ’s sake! The only thing it’s
poised on in the edge of this stump—“ye olde
dead tree” holding “ye old dead head.”  He had
a name, you know—Yorick—I didn’t make
that up. I knew him; good friend of my mum’s.
     This sword here could have been what ran him through,
you know.  Coulda got him straight through the gut,
and you’re all sittin’ here admiring its
craftwork.  It’s the fancy hilt, isn’t it,
the bright metal chasing its own tail in
golden loops.  Warm yellow over cold steel,
that’s what you people like—spectacle, shine—
not dust and history, like Yorick over here.
     You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?  Only
thing these candles are good for, really.  They’re
tallow—stinking, smoky fat made by Jen
on her weekends off.  She doesn’t know much
about candles, but her *****’s Special
Draft is the best mead made for this dung heap.
     Anyway, I gotta ****.  Leave Yorick
with your tips, and remember: what glitters
here isn’t gold, just paint over old age.

Step 1) Speak any language you want.
Helpful Tip: When men die, it doesn't matter what language they speak because all screams sound the same.

Step 2) Worship any god you please.
Helpful Tip: When men die, it doesn't matter what god supported them because all men fall the same.

Step 3) Pull the trigger.

Step 4) Win the war.

Step 5) Lose your soul.

Step 6) Let time pass you by.

Step 7) Forget the lessons history taught you.

Step 8) Repeat.

bleeds through pages, soaking
black and heavy into strings of wood
stretched to breaking, pressed too tight.
Others are scratched into open wounds,
dyeing blood reds magenta
as they crust into scars.  Permanent.
Names painted in defiance

for the greater good.  Thoughts
called into being by blues
and reds, and greens, and
halting greys as they spill
their living guts onto pages lines
with ink.  Printers’ ink, that is—

different from all the other kinds.
Lighter, duller, marking things no one
should cross.  Making boundaries.
Those inks are too cold to bleed,
too stiff and flat to stain a **** thing.
They refuse to sing because

they are broken, full
of tiny gaps and little pores.

Your voice, it resonates inside me
Your touch, my skin can feel that sensation
The way your eyelids blink, I can remember
The way your coat moved about you, I like to think of it

Your mouth curved into a slight smile, and my mind won't forget
"Your smell, it fills my soul" and I cannot forget those words
What is today and what is tomorrow?
They do not matter for me

This forlorn girl