Put Your Mouthful Of Words Away And

It Would Be Pleasant To Be Drunk.

One Can't Build Little White Picket Fences To Keep Nightmares Out.

Despite My Asbestos Gloves, The Cough Is Filling Me With Black, And A Red Powder Seeps Through My Veins.

Death, I Need My Little Addiction To You. I Need That Tiny Voice Who, Even As I Rise From The Sea, All Woman, All There, Says Kill Me, Kill Me.

But Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build. Twice I Have So Simply Declared Myself, Have Possessed The Enemy, Eaten The Enemy, Have Taken On His Craft, His Magic.