I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don’t they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father’s genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
Take the brown eyes of my father, those gun shots, those mean muds. Bury them. Take the blue eyes of my mother, naked as the sea...
The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn’t that enough?
I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
All in all, I’d say, the world is strangling.
My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
I have been cut in two.
Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don’t always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I’m hung up on it.
My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed; lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
Some women marry houses. It’s another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
Death’s in the good-bye.