As I lay dying (the poem, not the shitty band)
more reclined than anything
slouched
on my back porch
Sipping hooch from the bottle
watching my dog take a piss a quarter acre away
straight from the bottle.
All my ego like a candle.
Lit by failure
drained by women and songs fallen flat.
Failure.
Am I just killing time
or is time killing me?
No, that blessed task is left to the liver damage.
The pills powdered into morning swill.
Like medicine for the weary.
That flush of blood behind my eyes
that fuzzy feeling you get when...
everything shoots out
like some excited explosion of sense turned to sound and fury
signifying
nothing.
Drink up weary patron.
Yes barkeep, I shall 'ave another round.
One for me, and three for my imaginary friends.
Just pull back and drain.
Drain
drain
drain.
Rain. Reign. Pain.
Go away.
We'll have you over again, some other day.
In some other capacity
some infinitely useless
self loathing exercise.
Our obligations will dissapear, our skin will hang off our bones, and we will
sink
ever further into the tomb.
ever notice what that word rhymes with?
I thought you might have.
One more for the tax man.
One more for the teachers that believed in you.
One more for the boys who wanted to FUCK you.
One more for the girl who did.
In more ways than one.
One more for losing your mind.
Misplacing your faith.
Forgetting your hope.
One more
because I hate all of you.
One more to put me in my cantankerous grave
or at least face down in a pool of puke.
One
victory
just for me.
Sacred, sanctioned and certified.
And we could put this all back in the cabinet.
But you wouldn't have it.
Neither would I.
Neither have I.
Nothing have I.
