I keep bubblegum wrappers with notations, your vice villanellecherry pop and pancreas Polyjuice, an exchange of habitsand horror story whores emasculated by the way you tiptoearound the side of a wet pool, avoiding splinters and slipsof nipples with your bad knees bad vibes bad juju.
For centuries, people of all religions have debated the existence of fate. It’s become one of the most common conversations to be had despite the ever changing religious beliefs of the world. Yet, no one can seem to come to an agreement. It’s a topic that creates passionate arguments within science and all regions of religion, whether it be within the one most common God, or all the Gods in history that are now obsolete. It seems that most people believe free will and fate work together hand in hand, guiding each other along a path, where fate only intervenes when necessary. Unfortunately people fail to see that these philosophical constructs are contradictory to each other. Their purposes reverse that of the other which in turn diminishes their value of existing in the first place. If they mutually exist then their purposes become invalid just by the mere presence of one negating the function of the other. So either they both exist with no true function whatsoever, or only one exists. And if only one exists, then rationally it must be fate.
A girl once said (about you) that “D**** will sing in a way that makes me feel like he has his hand in my chest cavity, gently caressing my dying heart.” This was some time last week, and I remember stopping and rereading those two short lines over and over—considering stealing part of it as inspiration for another poem I would add to this book. Or maybe as a letter I would send you randomly someday when I’m in my 50s so you know that I’m still thinking about you from time to time. A way to make it so you could never forget about me, arbitrary letters shoved into a box you keep locked on the bookshelf in your office. A box filled with me.
Goddamn, I’m a train wreck, car crash, pile up,Percocet, ripped jeans, wine stains, goodbyeI forget the last time I spoke to you withoutregret and trepidation digging holesthrough my gut, tongue, toes, knees, the wayI need you needy needy needy, I want our nosesto touch and speak to me in lyrics only I wouldknow – because you know me indelicatelylike coke and codeine exhumed from mytonsils every time I say your name withsecrecy or riddles that only you could solveliving in the poverty of your old age
How many times have you died this week?