Each night, my wife goes to bed, and I commit suicide.
I break out the gun, the razor, the pills, the bottle...
and I take another bullet, another nick, another pill, another swill
that slowly puts it thumbs down on the scale
and pushes me over the fence.
Each day I feel a pressure in my right rib.
Is it sciatica? Is it liver swelling?
Either way, it gives me anxiety.
Which is the license I need to pour another bullet.
I watched my stepfather drink himself to death
and wondered why he loved the bottle more than us.
I thought I was so fucking smart
and above him.
Because I read
because I watched foreign films
because I listened to avant garde music
and I was the same flawed human as him
Tightening the rope
in delicious individual slips.
Country music or Ingmar Bergman films.
Didn't make a lick of difference to the dragon.
When you overdose on opioids and booze
your real killer is relaxation.
The pills tell your brain,
"Quit being so uptight. Chill out. Breathing is squaresville, Daddy-O".
And your medulla oblongata goes
"Why am I stressing about this breathing thing? I should calm down. I want to fit in, right?"
And, now that oxygen has become passe, you've achieved ultimate coolness
Shitting your pants and vomiting from the mouth and leaving a young beautiful bloated discolored corpse
Rock and roll baby.
Jim Morrison was a beautiful man.
He died bloated and bearded and miserable
like your uncle that always starts shit at Thanksgiving
The Lizard King is an emperor with no clothes
Dying like the rest of us.
My dear daughter Scarlet.
I did love you so very very much.
But like my stepdad and his slow decline,
I craved the comfort of the bottle more.
The wound lasts another generation.
Like a stiletto attached to a carnival wheel.
Slicing chunks out of the next sucker unfortunate enough to end up on the board.
I may not have accomplished much.
But at least I'll die like my heroes.
Like a fucking loser.
Dying is for dorks, and don't let anybody tell you any different.
