the dead do not fly

you have been collecting feathers
and have strewn them all over the carpet

the is a letter
for me
sitting on the doorstep welcomemat
is it there to inform me of a death?
but maybe that would be easier
it sure as hell will not be to tell me
it is okay for us to be this way

but that is the way these things happen with kids

you are sticking and stitching those feathers
making wings, just two wings
for a bird that cannot use them anymore

you are not good enough
but no amount of music will change:
there is nobody i would rather suffer with
[maybe that is why we suffer so much]

i tell you he makes me laugh
to make you paranoid
what i dare not say is that
everybody laughs at that loser
that is a distortion of ideas, of sorts
i may well laugh at him
but on those days when i 
"do not feel right"
they are days when i have fucked him instead

pick those dead bird bits
off my red carpet

some of out best conversations 
have been conducted at gunpoint
[me with it down my throat, fishing for self-esteem
you bringing a whole new dimension to "shooting up"]

i am tracing the ugly on my skin
and have hidden a taste of you
tucked away behind a molar
behind my baby teeth [soon to be removed]
i am making you a collage
a hearing aid of string and gold paint
maybe then you will notice
what i want you to see
[and not who i really am]