A Whore Who Can't Drink (Christ)

driving home
on Xmas eve
from a home
where everyone eats
her cancer.

the lights
of the city
we are whizzing by
are so welcoming.
city lights
that blink
so planes don't crash.
office parties,
and neon-bar signs.
These people are fine,
and that is the beauty
of advertisement
and intoxication, lung cancer
and absentness.

I was I was drunk
on Xmas eve, 2008
or stoned
like everyone else
at her pre-funeral
party.

half-empty
people, and bottles
are scattered
all over.
We should work
for an ad company
where nothing matters
anymore, or any less.

I wish I was out
in a neon bar
on Xmas eve
with other peoplewho can't stand
to be anywhere
else, but not there
at all.

my mother
is crying
in the front seat.
I didn't eat any of her
food.
but I'm not
hungry, anymore
for anything.
I am thirsty,
and dry-eyed,
I am clenched too tightly,
for a sober cunt
like myself.

I say "Xmas"
because I can't
say "christ"
without feeling.
Like a whore;
who can't even drink
any more, at all,
nothing.

I smoke
cancer-sticks
and watch
my loved ones.
I watch away,
away from their deaths,
away from hers,
and away
from my own.