the lifeless times of who you think you are.

this is one of those times you feel like you are expected to look inside and examine carefully the entrails of the dead man on the sidewalk but his splattered brains don't really tell you all that much. the structure appears to be the same but you still can only assume what you have no way to find out and I hope you feel the way because otherwise you wouldn't be normal

so lets talk about the six eternal minutes that swallowed him up as he was teetering on the fine line between here and there

but that’s all too fanciful a rich mans indulgence

and we are not rich men

so why can I not find this link when you’re alive? your suffering I understand. It reaches out to me I fill myself with stickines of gooey pathos and maternal juices, trickling down my legs and out of my ears weaving into the nihil cosmos, drenched in the incurable romance of our wristcutter-love

I remember an ungainly boy leaning into me as we swapped stories of love and death cutting out a space and linking fingers swimming in exhilarating sorrow in the middle of chest thumping music the same old hazy nightclub but you can’t possibly expect me to be intimate when I am dry

you can't possible expect this man to agree please try and remember how his brain has unfolded at my feet, think of it like an unfurling flower if that is easier to remember

I could even tell you what I saw-

the arc his lithe body carved out in the sky the swift return to the earth the muted explosion and the sound in ears they are ringing with the screech of brakes and the thud

I have shed copious tears over your body and I know you know that

alive I wouldn’t even sit in the heat of your vacated seat

-it is, after all, what my grandmother taught me.