Love Is a Dog from Hell

there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock. people so tired mutilated either by love or no love. people just are not good to each other one on one. the rich are not good to the rich the poor are not good to the poor. we are afraid. our educational system tells us that we can all be big-ass winners. it hasn't told us about the gutters or the suicides. or the terror of one person aching in one place alone untouched unspoken to watering a plant.

I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of.

there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock

you boys can keep your virgins give me hot old women in high heels with asses that forgot to get old.

there is always one woman to save you from another and as that woman saves you she makes ready to destroy

I drive around the streets an inch away from weeping, ashamed of my sentimentality and possible love.

I'm going, she said. I love you but you're crazy, you're doomed.

she is no longer the beautiful woman she was. she sends photos of herself sitting upon a rock by the ocean alone and damned. I could have had her once. I wonder if she thinks I could have saved her?

in this land some of us fuck more than we die but most of us die better than we fuck

your letters got sadder. your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all lovers betray. it didn't help. you said you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and the bridge was over the river and you sat on the crying bench every night and wept for the lovers who had hurt and forgotten you.

alone with everybody the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and them men drink too much and nobody finds the one but they keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh. there's no chance at all: we are all trapped by a singular fate. nobody ever finds the one. the city dumps fill the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill nothing else fills.

one can never be sure whether it's good poetry or bad acid

and you invented me and I invented you and that's why we don't get along on this bed any longer. you were the world's greatest invention until you flushed me away. now it's your turn to wait for the touch of the handle. somebody will do it to you, bitch, and if they don't you will - mixed with your own green or yellow or white or blue or lavender goodbye.

the history of melancholia includes all of us.

the writing of some men is like a vast bridge that carries you over the many things that claw and tear. The Wine of Forever

when the phone rings I too would like to hear words that might ease some of this.

If there are junk yards in hell, love is the dog that guards the gates.

stay with the beer. beer is continuous blood. a continuous lover.

I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom, but that didn’t happen. your letters got sadder. your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all lovers betray.

I hope that death contains less than this.

I thought you were sane," I said, "but you're just as crazy as the rest of them.

people are not good to each other. perhaps if they were our deaths would not be so sad.

It’s so easy to be easy—if you let it.

we know God is dead, they've told us, but listening to you I wasn't sure.

Trapped don't undress my love you might find a mannequin: don't undress the mannequin you might find my love. she's long ago forgotten me. she's trying on a new hat and looks more the coquette than ever. she is a child and a mannequin and death. I can't hate that. she didn't do anything unusual. I only wanted her to.

I was only kidding about the hundred," she says. oh," I say, "what will it cost me?" she lights her cigarette with my lighter and looks at me through the flame: her eyes tell me. look," I say, "I don't think I can ever pay that price again.

there's no chance at all: we are all trapped by a singular fate.

there must be a way. surely there must be a way that we have not yet thought of. who put this brain inside of me? it cries it demands it says that there is a chance. it will not say "no.

sometimes I hate you," she said.

I have gotten so used to melancholia that I greet it like an old friend.