Contrition

I painted the walls with your name
and then burned the fucking house down.

The oceans aren't going to boil themselves,
and what are we going to do with all this salt?

Cake me, baby. I wanna repent for the pain.
I can't hurt you like he did, or does, or will --

it's so hard to keep track of your movements.
Why did I spend months splashing Seagrams

like holy water when you like the pain?
You could've just told me that. I can find

the right shade of grey if that's what you need.
Irony is not lost on me, and the definition

is not lost on you. Your new life is built
on top of the concept like a haunted house

on a burial site. Bury me or marry me,
I'm not what you need right now anyway.

You need a familiar ache, fangs that know
how to tear into a heart, eyes that can't stop

wandering, a mouth made for half-truths
and other peoples' lips. No,

I am not what you need right now.
You needed someone to call you

when you were lying next to me.
I could call you when you're lying

next to him. And you could give me a second
chance because I don't deserve one,

and that's how this all works, isn't it?

[Pray high, sinners]

Pray high, sinners. Take the pills and parcel them

out amongst the lot of you. Find forgiveness

in the lighter head, the warmer numb.

Ask our lord for a hand and he’ll shake us

clean. I died for you one time, but never again.

Lift lines like lifting spirits – we live in heaven now.

At least we think this is where we are. Darker

than originally imagined, louder than the place

we came from. Our fathers said this will pass

and we don’t believe them worth a bit of salt.

We’re worth a bit of salt. A bit of sound, quiet

or otherwise – good men know where they are.

We are not good men. We are the big-eyed bugs

who can’t see the future. Who are built to ruin

moviesets and pretty girls crying in their homes.

Eighteen eyes, eighteen drinks in, we can’t see

eighteen inches before us. Damned by our loves.

Silly rabbits – they thought we’d scatter when the lights came on.

Untitled, May 5

Hell used to be further away than the front door

and I can only recall the better lines.

A heart of black gold –

there was a beating to it

once, but the mass

it don’t breathe no more. I want to dig a hole in the world

only to find someone

has done it

before. Baby, defeat me.

There was a desire once, and pure thoughts.

Noble action. A truth that would

burn itself at the stake. Truth like a kiss

like a rock.

Kiss like a rock. Now we kiss like rocks kiss.

She found a strange sweetness in my mouth once,

a taste greater than the smoke.

            More saccharine than the tinny blood

            the sink finds each morning now.

I filled the lungs and the hole. I burned the truth, burned the sugar off.

I learned a lesson once,

            quickly learned to kill:

Killed a heart and it turned black.

Killed a girl and she kissed me back.

Kissed me ‘til the cows came home.

Kissed me ‘til her stop came up.

Fucked, forever

The beautiful boys and girls used to run

ragged through the East Village, puking

on sidewalks and fucking themselves stupid

with the joy they borrowed from each other.

We used to meet their cousins – tight

and smooth, trusting adolescents

from the Midwest. They let their hands

rub up our thighs, to our soft or swollen spots.

Nobody’s cousin is fucking anyone tonight.

There was a time we said: love.

Then, we said: appreciate.

I discovered a lady’s tells, and she sent me away.

I could steal her money and cut out her tongue,

but she would still play with my fingers –

an aimless, silent monologue through a mouthful

of blood. This is how we knew each other.

This is when we drank and fucked, forever

looking for a path. She showed me her light

and it turned out to be a train and a tunnel

and we don’t know what we want anymore.

We do know what we need.

I need a bed that won’t quit and a meter

that won’t expire, something I can keep

time to when the light goes out.

And all she needs is the hard cock

of her handsome man.

For Boston

Boston is not our home, but our sisters
live there. Our sisters' boyfriends live
there too. The former loves we knew
are down the street, those wet-mouthed

boys and girls we kissed on Commonwealth
wait on corners with cold faces.
Kin, made of shared blood
and shared necessity, are creating

new life in the city. From within.
With one another. We are visitors
but our people are not. The city
has adopted them, like it always has.

Boston is not our home, but our mail
gets lost there sometimes. Traveling
by train or by bender, we look
to be welcomed by the ghosts

we left in the backyard of our
neighboring town. We want to have
a drink with you soon, Boston.
You're the friend we've had

since childhood. We don't always
think the same, but we all want
the same thing now. To get back
to the sweet closeness of when

we all felt safe. The soft where
that gives New England its heart.