I write a lot. It’s mostly lies. I fall in love to pass the time. I never fit. I never tried. I need the struggle to feel alive. All I want are records on my stereo. I’m better off, baby, when I’m all alone. That’s a lie. Dirty cigarettes and a dirty soul. Tell me I’m enough. I’m dying to know what it’s like. The sound is fucked, but I don’t mind. It’s wrong enough to feel alright. I think a lot. Like, all the time. I get in trouble when things get quiet. All I want are records on my stereo. I’m better off, baby, when I’m all alone. That’s a lie. Dirty cigarettes and a dirty soul. Tell me I’m enough. I’m dying to know what it’s like.
And you told me that you loved me I swallowed every drop down And you told me how it felt Like being gagged and bound And you told me you were leaving On the last train out And you told me, “Go to hell.”
Well, let me tell you, beautiful, I’ve been there Believe me when I say I’m not afraid Of destruction, sorrow, fear, or regret I heard the devil call me by my name
You GUYS (and gals and nonbinary folks, I use guys as a gender-neutral group term). Last Supper is SO GOOD. I am writing a review of it for Reckless Chants #21, so stay tuned. But damn. DAMN. This actually isn’t even one of the best poems from the book, but this one made me smile so I wanted to share it.