i'd pick your heart out if i could
mix it in with piss and blood
stir it round with my last stick of dignity,
serve it to us both and say, "this is what you did to me."

we'd feast upon your feelings and frets
then lay you down for a final ritual of breaths
and when the sun crept back over the bleak hills,
i'd see your body in my bed, hollow and still.

i'd carry you out and into the trees,
say a final curse and there your body i would leave
stumble back home and drive my car
into a wall, starting from afar

our funerals would coincide upon the same days,
and we'd embark to hell together through the haze,
walking through the oak doors, loving and hand in hand
because, in hell, we'd both be happy again.




one of my shorter poems
 
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