I want to be nothing but bones, a
skeleton with a wardrobe of tattered and tattooed skin, picked out
from the morgue in the night like a resale shop for life. I want to
walk the streets dragging a dead dog on a metal leash while I bark my
favorite obscenities to the moon.
I want to be one of them, a
creature only visible in the night or in nightmares. A person who a
little girl would see from the backseat window with dreary eyes on
her way home from Disney World, while awoken by the dull glow of a
strange city – someone who'd haunt the hallways of the magic
kingdom in her dreams and dangle her innocence over the balcony where
her Prince Charming jumped to his death after being raped by Jeffrey
Dahmer in a mouse costume.
I want to die in an alley with a needle in
my vein and a hooker's face in my crotch, after ejaculating my
brilliant ghost all the way up to its throne of rooftops that crown
the abandoned highrises that ooze darkness from their windows. I want
to find Shakespeare’s spirit in the afterlife and call him a pussy.
I want people to read my poetry and vomit, and teachers to hide my
books from their students. I want to bitch slap Billy Collins with
the hand of the underworld laureate, then sip absinthe mixed with
lighter fluid from a teacup and ask him what he thinks this poem
means.
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