Suicide Poet and Pen

Ink: think, like a thin white line (not cocaine, not this time) -
just - a stallion, thinking like Italian men, with rips in t-shirts and
dents in skirts, and riddles, thinking I could use a needle
for the next full moon - kidding (like kids) getting
new razor blades again. Empty, I'm tempted to
rip the main vein (or get someone else to); let it break
and hear it rain. Blood stain, could I rip you up instead?
I'll show you how to cry, how to play dead,
how to be scared, and yet: still good in bed?
I need to be suicidal. It's a risk - it's like a bride and groom
with white piss, like a cold day. I am heroin - a grey cloud of
rain to piss on your grave. (Suicide): skull foreplay -
how should we end the day? Overdose. Or I could be made up
like a train track; ever noticed my tracks, like a break
in the wrist - a full-face-fuck and a blow job for good luck?
I don't need luck. I have God - and a prayer that
love lost. And how much does love cost? Can you buy my love -
cheaper than a diamond ring? Do you want me to sing to
you, love it when I sing........ Lullabye, Daddy - do you want me to
STING....
Can you help? I might have cancer or HIV -
why the fuck would you start needing to need me?
I'm sky high and bisexual and pretty ready to fuck with anyone's
head. I like to run hearts, and drive through them -
motorway. I'm still in the way. Let me swallow
(a pint of blood before I am sick) - or I'll spit.
Here is my cocaine serenade. Do you love it?