birthday poem

so this is still my life,
this unbroken string,
wrapped around my knuckles,
white, chapped and bleeding

once more

i cut you out, and lay you down like a flag on the cold ground,
all meaning lost, in the grass and the frost,
the night lines are harrowing, terrible,
the skyline is rumbling air,
smoke fills the roof
the roof is rumbling terrible,
the heart burn is mounting,
to sky tip snow,
hot ash is spinning through my lungs,
like only you know,
like the hellish high water is flooding our brains,
and the effigy I built of you is burnt up once again,
and the pedestal we teeter on; in instant is; tumbling once again,
and the head aches; are a flash flood; pissing down the drain.

I feel better than I would if i'd just begged for more time,
that is no kind of life line to be hanging on,
with your eye half behind your head,
waiting and waiting for the day of the dead,
this is no better than the day that we'd said,
when we waited for corn to pop,
but there were roaches instead,
and we bleed from our sores,
with our feet running red.
I feel better than I would if i'd just begged for you,
to come out from behind curtains, out into the sun,
lent me a handgun and a shoe lace,
so I could run through the apocalypse until my wick was done,
and then I could swing between the door frame,
dreaming of what never had become.