Death

I want to move to the country, deep in the mountains and live in a cottage there, and not worry about people anymore. I want to find the one I will give myself to completely, and lie in their arms and softly sleep and dream of sheep.

Under the mountain, capped with snow, I would walk with such gigantic steps; listening intently to the wind as its song wanders down from the valley.

I wish it was nineteen seventy-two again. I want to wear my hair long and not be so fat, I want to wear scarfs and walk my dogs and press flowers. I yearn to be alone. Kissing the sunset goodnight, I would read, and listen to music, and not have a telephone. I want to write my poems and not worry about anyone reading them.

I wish Samuel Beckett were still alive. I want to hold his hand and have him tell me it will all be alright. I would only ever listen to that sentence if he told it to me. Which he does. I masturbate and wait for Godot, Molloy, Malone, and the rest. One day I will go to Paris and lie down on his grave, and stroke the stone with my grotesque fingers and press my lips against the cold. I cannot thank him enough.

I want to save everyone from the eternal chilly black; I want everyone here with me, on some beautiful enchanted isle. I miss that beautiful girl, whom I loved. I really did give her everything, and now I just do not know where to put my penis, or my heart. All the holes seem the same these days, but I still open my chest and invite them inside. I want everyone with me, and I want to protect them all from the pain. All pain. I want it to be gone. Why can't we all stay here in eternal embrace? You cannot hug the bones. You can't cuddle a corpse. I don't want my mummy to have to go into that horrid earth and lie alone forever. She doesn't deserve that. No one deserves that - not after all we've been through. The birth was hard enough, and then the society - that brute. I don't want my bunny to go into that awful hole and not climb out. I want to stop it all, and not ever have to say that cruel, horrible farewell. I will have to write some words someday, that cannot bring back my departed friends, but will bring smiles and tears in equal measure.

Things have changed so much in this house. It feels much darker, more slow, and altogether more ethereal. I can just drift through the walls and trip over memories, cascading down the stairs and crashing over the carpet, onto my shoes. I can't help but feel the water around my ankles. I'm drowning in the past, gasping for air and grabbing for a raft.