The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.
You want to go out to dinner sometime?
Sorry, no. I’m married, not hungry, infected with seven unknown diseases, gay, pregnant with lizards and clinically dead.
The inner fight never does any dead. (Le combat intérieur – Ne fait jamais de mort)
You are a cool cemetery.
You have the sinner’s grave
You have the saint’s earth
You have all the beds
narrow as a knife;
as if a rally of tombstones to defend death.
But you can’t really postpone
the inauguration of my burial,
From the poem – Few Words to Cemetery
Technically, all tattoos are temporary, even permanent ones.
The sound of him drinking was indescribable-like dirty runoff down a storm drain.
This place is Hell’s waiting room.
Good thing I’m aging, otherwise I’d be dead.
There is a certain seductiveness about dead things. You can ill treat, alter and recolour what’s dead. It won’t complain.