Friday, February 29, 2008
Luck has nothing to do with it
The barrel feels coarser in my mouth,
Than it looks.
My tongue instinctively goes into the hole,
As if it could stop the 12 gauge slug from tearing off the back of my head.
Stopping my clock.
Thoughts sprayed across the walls of this unfinished garage.
My last fuck you,
As if I haven’t issued enough .
I feel like a bird nested in this pile of papers.
My mini mountain of misery.
Thank god the mail keeps coming.
Thought I would catch a break after the phone was shut off,
After she left,
But they can still send letters.
Most of them are not even open.
As if the balances,
If I can’t see them.
I can smell the vodka,
In the sweat that is dripping down my face.
I like how it feels when the droplets pool on my chin.
Hanging there for just a second before they fall to the ground.
I am in my own little pool of filth.
Mess that I created.
That I am too weak to clean up myself.
It is all in the letters,
Sitting in the mail box,
With its little red flag in the air,
Waiting to tell you I am sorry,
That I hate you,
That you ruined my life,
That I am a coward,
That I should have never been.
*Poem and Picture From Gagging on the Wishes*
By Brian Johnson All Rights Reserved
*Hard to believe I was in this frame of mind three years ago, for those of you who wondered about the title it is a a play on Marianas Trench, which is the lowest known point on the planet. It is also a play on all of the letters in my name in a feminine form indicating a lost of control and de-masculination, a lot of people emailed me when they got the book trying to point it out as a typo*