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100 Years to Die

They will do it and undo me: they will deeply sedate me --or else electrocute me— until I die.”
I am a Calliope voodoo doll mornings, and a bottle at lunch; still I blame the night. 
It’s this monochrome party bleeding me dry, and I'm just compensating.
I spent my life writing my way out of the world, now I’m making up for missed complaining.
(But there are no more parties anymore like those that mossed this floor last year.
And “the very stone one kicks with one’s boot will outlast Shakespeare.”)
I’m fertile but nervous; I’m an idler; I lied to her; I’m branded, but I’ve been forgotten.
I’m a protein though My Woman’s placebo; I’m a shot if only a blue bone; I'm poor but wanton.
I’m dry but of a tidal mind; I’ve strung and been strummed; I’m a definition, but I’m missing.
...And I want some supper for this song here, some compensation for this singing.

I thought I hated giving enough,
but I’m really just a sad little fuck
with a mind worn by bleeding variables.
I always had to leave Her feeling terrible.

You know that the day you don’t ______________ is the day you will die.
It’s a lemon for the Nipple now for a century’s Garage Sale, or however long it takes to die.

	Personals:
		We got this four-post bed we don’t break 
		against the cold wall anymore;
		fat books I never got around to reading 
		and instead just lost to the floor;
	 	a long table with perfect grain we were never
		hungry enough to come to;
		clothes in every size; closets are rulers 
		reading ‘time came too soon.’

So everything we made together was the Everyman’s trash; and each item hosts a zoo of stains.
I can’t reverse or remind, recharge or rewind. I don’t clean, ‘cause that would mean change,
and I can’t take that; I couldn’t even change her mind.  Even dead bones have a little fat.
Even the fed souls get to hating facts.  And even old poems remember how to act:

I thought I had rubbed out the blush from our life,
but I’m just a blossoming bug bite
with an itch like a suicide wrist like something mechanical;
and when I leave her, I leave her feeling terrible.

We’ve got boxes of pictures that show things better than our own work;
empty rooms and ugly views that try to prove we had a love with no Earth…
And all of those old love letters I hold in my hand to read at call:
they’ve got a million meanings, or maybe none at all.
I’d like to be exact fiction or exact fact.  I’d like to be either an absurdity or an exact fit.
I’m not a writer.  I just share all the things others are too ashamed to admit,
like they spent one day becoming the world, then took one hundred years to fall asleep.
I’m not a writer.  I just share all the things that I am too ashamed to keep:

Like, I thought I was just annoyed or decoyed, or I thought I was just paranoid.
But I’m really just a bedtime story, I’m just a little boy
with hands like ambition like a heart like a cannibal.
I thought we were fine, but I left her feeling terrible.


Carbon