This is called "The Suicide," and I
like this bravado at the end.
I don't know if it's that hot a poem either.
"The Suicide."
"The street coughs blood in a linen handkerchief
as I strut down to the river where
the oil ship's black bars of soap
float up right on steel spines, a wharf suicide's pimp
as a tight, deep vagina of water,
and I'm going to fuck it until it knows, 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."
Sorry, did you get those last few words?
I know I'm not supposed to lean.
[LAUGHTER]
I don't like reading these things, whatever you call them.
I forget and I step back, and I know
I'm supposed to stay close so you can hear.
I am sorry about that.
But I'm tired of people saying they're sorry,
so I don't do it.
I can do it, but you can't.
If you took a survey of how many people were really sorry that
they had done something shitty to you,
you'd find out they weren't.
You'd have to face facts, and then
we probably have a great influx of inmates
into the insane asylum.