the words have come and gone,
I sit ill.
the phone rings, the cats sleep.
Linda vacuums.
I am waiting to live,

the goldfish sing all night with g
and the whores go down with the st
the whores go down with the stars
I’m sorry, sir, we close at 4:30,
besides yr mother’s neck is dirty,

Go to Tibet.
Ride a camel.
Read the Bible.
Dye your shoes blue.
Grow a Beard.

I am in this low—slung sports car
painted a deep, rich yellow
driving under an Italian sun.
I have a British accent.
I’m wearing dark shades

I reached up into the top of the c
and took out a pair of blue pantie
and showed them to her and
asked “are these yours?”

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won’t flinch and

not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus

the history of melancholia
includes all of us.
me, I writhe in dirty sheets
while staring at blue walls
and nothing.

To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine—
just a lightbulb

the lady has me temporarily off th
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight—
instead of listening to Shostakovi