Death is pubic hair: black & coarse. A mansion of many rooms. A tidal wave that might drag you away. Death is Jeffrey Dahmer, eating you alive &liking it. A black velvet dress worn by my no. 1 dago after I die, dishonorably, jumping out a window after a bad trip. Death is a percussive corridor sound, Huey Long shot & writhing, his bodyguards taking target practice on his assailant. Death is Jim Morrison in a bathtub, mama cass & vomit, Kurt Cobain alone and with a gun, o Courtney, you don't love me, no one loves me & my life is terrible& will never get better. Millions know what he went through, and that is death, when you are alone forever.
Reason for writing:
I just sat down to write, and I sort of shit this out.
You know how it is-- when it gets to a certain point, no
matter what you do, it'll come out until you are spent.
Birth sign: Not entered
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