Football season is over

(inspired from excerpts of various famous suicide notes)

frances and courtney, i'll be at your altar.

stones in pockets and two lungs sucking a lake,
we can't go through another of those terrible times.


it is our wish to be burnt immediately, but the
baby coward's wife took cyanide, and the baby coward, a gun,
but like Salem, their screams should have shrieked through every
singe of every strip of their deviled flesh.


boring, he says, and always bitchy, so this won't hurt, because
the brain hurts, the brain hurts, the worst.


tiny notes scattered round the house
but the silence from the noose will last forever.


la tristesse durera toujours.

in my leather jacket, jeans and motorcycle boots,
please bury me next to my baby.


i called you all to say goodbye.


there is no self, only calm. flicking off as easy as
a lightswitch come bedtime.


my will is weak, i have fed you my flesh
you will feed on this flesh, still 90 years from
the morn i was born, 6/1/1926 to 6/1/2016.


i can't cope anymore with the division of joy.

all my mother's tendencies, tell father, tell X
i'm fit to be neither a good nor a bad man's wife.
from the 86th floor in 1947, i begged you before to keep
no evidence, burn the body right after, but just before
my body hit pavement, you took a picture still.


Boston, goodbye my solitary soul.


Chicago, it's not loaded, this is a game, oh, another
bullet to another hurt brain;


what is it about barrels feeling so good to the dome?


work is done, work is done, work is done,
why wait, why wait, why fade away?


no more laps in the sweet cesspool, i'm bored
goodnight, eve harrington, and good luck.


i do it in the woods, in the woods because i am a dream
but the knife is a dulled nightmare, so another bullet
and brain to feed the trees.


this because without money for: rent, child support, debt,

and the trigger-happy madmen,

the war-swooned fucks, and because with this lens i am
the vulture i have captured, so i will take the gas.


and i'll take the chloroform over the cancer, out finally from
the creeping along the yellowed walls, at last.


too wrong, too many times, so hancock signs off
a belly of booze, a belly of pills


and all over this body, the blindness, the blindness, impeding,
i, too, choose to sleep, and


Cuba, you are free, because before the night falls,
i, too, will be free.





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© 2018 Monica Lewis