your death makes the news
like a number.
something that might happen
praise is bad for the artist
& blame. especially praise.
but praise is good for people.
we need encouragement.
the poet is the Jehovah Witness of the art world.
they want to help but know you won’t accept
& that’s ok.
there’s something Sic about a Saviour
who knows you won’t be saved.
Free Will is a trick, like predestination
(oh for God’s sake eat the fruit already!
ur getting off on ur own juice.
it’s pretend. it’s not what u want.
high in ur shoes u’know
i’m shit sum
pot-bellied wank that wants u
but doesn’t know how to please!
what kind of saviour r u!
i could stew for ever. keep to myself long time
like a tortoise, but don’t because i want to be sociable.
what of it. is it eaten?
but rotten, red &
fallen among my leavings.
your body in the palpable light, torn from darkness.
pick it up.
it’s not a command because i think it, will it
only. pluckest me. why should i spread
the cloth. or
Strike down the night Say, with yr Sun,
comfort me. i thrum
your knuckles like 4 hills of rome.
when u die & i can’t make the funeral
but send u an e-mail ─
i should give
something more true or different, but no-o:
when u say i’m a fraud,
i refuse to discuss, even if
my taciturnity inculpates me.
i say this only half smiling.