This is called "The Suicide."
And aptly enough, it was written just
before Berryman committed suicide,
so it's sort of my tribute to him.
We also held a wake, this friend and I, for him.
We went out and got drunk one night
and I stole the glass of vodka from the Shanty
and we left it in this alley for his spirit.
"The Suicide."
The street coughs blood in a linen handkerchief
as I strut down to the river where
the oil ships, black bars of soap,
float upright on steel spines.
The wharf, suicide's pimp, has a tight, deep vagina of water.
And I'm going to fuck it until it novas just
to let everybody see how I cut through life
like a diamond in a sack of glass with no regrets.
And a what's it to you to shove crooked up your ass?