In love with the women of other men. Once it was an affliction. I hated my envious heart. I love you J. I love you D. How brave they are, the custodians of your beauty, the men whose diaries I no longer read. I am in debt and self-disgrace. I do not want my wife or baby. How sweet to be this wretch, sitting at midnight in an empty house, forgotten by himself in the midst of his own testament.
I’m fucking the dead people now
not you with your breast on fire
not you with your blouse on the floor
Why do you ring the bell in the night
as if we lived in a town
as if the Infant were born
as if the Mystery survived
I’m fucking the dead people now
I don’t have to try for a song
I don’t have to count up to ten
Why did you let your fingers grow
Why do you wear your jeans so round
There’s snow on your eye. Your underwear
is cold especially the rim
Not waiting for a parachute
Don’t want to scrape off the moon
Try to die on your stomach
I’m fucking the dead people now