play, pause, replay

we lay in the sun and wish to die

There's the last winter of '92 buried

under the tree I had planted with Mom.

A vinyl plays somewhere in the corner

that ceases the silence of the knife

scraping against my burnt skin.

My vision blurs, but I can still make out

the poster with a bleeding skull

where the red muffler from Atlas hangs.

A sad kid cries behind my window and

all I can do is laugh like there's no tomorrow.

We hang the half-burned poetry with

the other whitewashed clothes,

and then lay in the sun, to soak it all.

Sometimes we fall asleep on the hay,

the dirt and blood sketching 

murals of our past.

I used to fall asleep when they made

dusty yellow small-talk. 

The sky would leak in bleached lilac,

and the ache to die little by little

will grow deep inside.

Sometimes I bang my head against

the edge of the cold bathtub.

Our days are spinning; white light,

and the last sip of stale wine.

So we bask a little longer in the

dull daylight, and let it take away

the leftover of our decayed brains.

A snippet of last December rushes out

of the fractured window before I can catch it.

The tiles are red and warm, like the liquid

flowing through my limbs and lips.

Slit my brain open, burn it with the last cigar

and throw it out before it rots in your teeth.