Poem To Lautreamont
life was given to me sarcastically;
now i wade the swamps of doubt
in search of something steadfast
to rest on.
life was given to me as a wound
that every birthday bleeds afresh;
i try to bind it with rags,
i try to cauterize it,
and i have considered amputation;
life is weird and mysterious,
i burned myself on gods' stove -
now i try to alm the burning sensation
with the aloe vera of self-deceit.
life was given to me as a wound
- suicide has not yet
permitted me to make
that wound a healing scar.
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