Death is better:
than the loneliness
and the blackness
and the terrible silence-
a silence like thunder.
It is the music of death.

The hell with it.
You’re just
no good.
Even a murderer or a thief
or a dog or an ant
has something
that keeps its head
up and going.

But I haven’t.
Just a wild panicky eagerness
to die.

I’ll never be afraid or dream again.
When you’re dead there’s nothing left
except time going on and on
like water over your body.

I got to say goodbye.
I got to tell her goodbye
like I thought
I was coming back,
even if I’m dead.





So he layback quiet.
He tried to calm his breathing.
To stop his breathing.
He could hold his breath,
point the gun
and kill himself.

He imagined her young and beautiful,
like that day a minute ago
when he said goodbye to her.
But dead men don’t think.
A moment later
he was alone
in the blackness
and the silence.

He ran to Christ
with a million stars shining.
He threw himself
at the feet of Christ
with a bullet in his belly
and began to cry,
howling and laughing
and shrieking and moaning.
It is the music of death
said Christ.






He was lying there in stillness
like a side of beef,
forever safe from time.

I never really knew pain.
He was lying there in stillness,
dead and rotting
before life even began.

I cry inside and I bleed,
howling and laughing
and shrieking and moaning.
It is the music of death.

No no.
No no no.
Oh please
oh please oh please.
No. No no.
Please no.
Please.
No.
Don’t go.