Now if you are expecting some insipid fan poem, I think you'll be pleasantly surprised.
Burn Your Shirt
I had never been further from suicide
the night that word became my sainthood,
my needle-wings, my gun-smoke halo
in the hearts of thought-starved sheep.
You think your candles mean something to me?
Or the statue sworn to immortalize my likeness,
as if I didn't live
a livid middle-finger in the face of mainstream media?
You praise my bandaged shadow,
cry teenybopper-tears, dripping their salt
on a cotton-soft slap-in-the-face,
but if you put a fraction of that energy
you dole to droll idolatry
toward the nonsense of my exit…
the comatose blood in my veins,
the post-exeunt shotgun-wash,
the crime scene screaming murder
from a box logged in Seattle's closet…
…you'd pull down this stupid halo
and place its circle where it belongs:
the throat of that bleach-rich vulture named Love
you preen when you pay for my songs
or any of that tributary crap
she's all-too-glad to rape me for.
She plays the grieving widow,
but twenty years haven't washed her hands
of the stink of sulfur and vinegar.
There are nights when the darkness around her
is louder than the rush of her pulse,
when the phosphenes under her eyes
refuse to rearrange from the face of her transgression.
Or haven't you wondered why
is so easy for her to say,
but like Philistine daggers to look at?
She has skinned me to make her purse,
but don't mistake me for gone.
The dirt didn't forget Abel.
The Wishkah remembers my ashes,
knows the taste of something vengefully bitter,
and Courtney is going to too.
* * *