Burn me still, when you do,
With ink on the pads of my fingers
And with my meter scrawled hastily
On the centre of my ticklish palm,
And let me find my sour/sweet chaos
In the order you placed me into,
For I know now and will ever know;
In the madness, there is love.

the archers have their fingers
pointed squarely at the hotel singer
smoke on the edge of their mouths
coiling sweetly all across the house
and the trees will part
for a song and a blood sacrifice

bowed low over a guitar
trying to teach himself the meaning of pain
sitting in the dark of a car
doing his best to convincingly feign
the long-suffering fool
with everything to gain

her ashes sunk in the sand
and the rest went over the electric dam
in the dark the mournful loon calls
as trumpets echoed in the concrete halls
and the rapids will churn
with a growl and the whisper of a lovely fern

when i am dead,
bury me someplace vast,
full of knowledge
bury me in a library
no, better yet
bury me under a shelf
full of books
no, better yet
bury me under a pile of books,
no, get me closer,
cremate me,
bury me between the sun-yellowed pages,
stuff me in
compress me into paragraphs, sentences,
words even
press me into the holes of letters
until i can see the pigment of the ink
and then i shall learn
to read between the lines