"cuz yr so sick & pretty," "every worthless day in the season of rain," and "the other you in love with this person i never was"

cuz yr so sick & pretty

good times, dead man
 
grow up singing the
song of your grandfather’s suicide
 
grow old sleeping with the
wives of strangers,
but there are worse things,
                                 right?
 
look at your father
 
consider the bones of
your youngest child
 
not much meat there,
so you gotta make it last
 
gotta swallow those
ashes and call it good
 
people starving everywhere,
like it’s the easiest
goddamn thing in the world

every worthless day in the season of rain

so you and i, we talk about
the deaths of minor gods
 
talk about eliot, about poetry, about
how it can only ever be a curtain,
something used to cover or reveal the truth of the sun,
and then the sun itself, yellow or dull silver
or luminous white
 
grey shadows on dead grass
 
the spaces between houses,
                 between cities,
                 between lovers
 
you and i on either side
 
the exile of hope
in the age of ignorance
 
walls and windows and distance and fear, and
what will we do when there’s nothing left
to eat but the past?
 
how much blood will it take
to quench your thirst?
 
it’s not a question asked
out of idle curiosity

the other you in love with this person i never was

and then tired of these drugs that
do nothing and then tired of the pain and
                                                         listen
 
the mathematics of your father’s death are
both simple and infinite
 
the heart betrays the body
and then the body is consumed and
you outlive him, sure,
but then what?
 
marriage, children, failures of your own, and
of course i believe in gorky and of
course i believe in cobain
 
i dig up towards the sun or else
down to the bones of anonymous victims
 
the age of knotted rope has arrived
 
the shadows of birds across
cracked and pitted parking lots, up the
rusted walls of abandoned factories and
i have grown up, i think, and
i have grown old
 
i have learned
the fine art of turning away
 
you will always be the
last person i see