Corner for Cage

(Father,

                If I wrote this as a letter, would it be better to have
half a million razors drown me, for better or worse, or
for the curse of the work of the heart that finds a corner and buys a
cage to hire, to call it a home? Would you understand if I said I couldn't
grow, to be who you are, who I should be, could be, would be... if I was...
perfectly mad and perfect, wrapped up and pretty for Sunday and easy and
not needing alcohol, not needing food or anything at all really....
                If I start a new paragraph, could I call it a sentence, or would
it be 'almost' like killing or murdering or reading a full book of scars, crosses and other things that make the heart tick, like a sick daughter
with hope of finding another exit..(?) Is suicide really a walk in the park after dark after choking on a spark plug full of water (and the daughter that committed suicide wasn't much of a daughter anyway), if we thought hard enough to decide, if we thought like we faught we wouldn't swear as much as we do now, wouldn't wear as much cloth and cotton and hope for a holiday in Heaven and begin to sin even though we were born into being undone, like a string...
              If I (again) told you about repeating the scene of hope and hate and humour, would you think it was a rumour, would you be searching for a brain tumour or something easier? Do you think alcoholism doesn't quite cover the offer you are offering to her? Am I your puppet? Can you pull my strings? Am I falling over all the valuable things? Am I turning, twisted, like an empty coffin? Can they catch me and stitch me and give me a heart transplant and then ask me to give blood and then say that I'm too thin? Should I be different, should I pay my TV licence, should I start writing down everything that means anything (alcohol, cigarettes)? Should I bend and break? Should I pay the day when I say hello to the moon and turn around, wondering, if the bowl will break soon and the end of the world will come to take everyone away and tell us who has won and who has lost and
would it really be worth everything that it cost? Are we black, are we white, can we run, can we hide, can we be pulled along by our own fucking pride?
                So tell me the address to Heaven, so I can send these questions and hopefully you'll get them... I'll post it first class and it should be to you fast so please reply as soon as you can - because I am one vein short of a man with a van and I could catch you if you could come up with a plan, like a hero, like Superman, come and hold my hand if you could show me how to stand. And tell me that my prayers are still written in the sand, like a slit wrist or a dark horse).