Thursday, January 21, 2016


justine. o justine. this is your death poem.
of course they fucking chopped your pretty head
off. you were
wicked, spoiled; a wretched bitch.
but your face, my justine, your face-

the most beautiful of all the faces i've seen
in my day.

i am reading your diary, as you half-instructed me,
when you said you'll stop giving a shit about everything

on earth
when you die.

so it is heaven. so it is heaven you choose. my justine.
you might be wrong.

you'll be in heaven, you used to say, and nothing
nothing nothing nothing else will matter.

justine, you were to remain naive. bless you.

i find myself alive in your diary. i find myself
awakened; so much more than i am, so much more

than i believe myself to be. everything that has

gone on in your bedroom- as if i don't know a thing
or two- has nothing on the revival of your

words in my eyes and nostrils, my lips parting
to speak them as if i'm making love to you. butterflies

in my intestines. butterflies
in my heart, which is definitely the most intenstinal

of all my parts inside.

my breathing is wicked. it's noticeable. the biggest vein
in my dick is pulsating wildly

like how yours in your vagina used to. what did we used

to call her? something like a tiger or a lovely flower.
will i ever be satisfied without you? i suppose,

like you had said.

when i become too weak for life, and thus i die,
i will meet you in heaven

though i believe it will be hell, it will still be heaven
if i reunite with you.

heaven is without a care about anything else, anything
at all
than itself.