twentysixteen

In February I fell
from grace
and it rained scraps
of aeroplane.
The sky was a mess, 
Cumulus mediocrisis.

In May I fell again,
down the stairs
of a Premiere Inn.

In June I set my hair on fire.
In July Can I cum? flashed on my phone
he might as well have said:
You will always be this alone.

You know how people hoard
bits of the dead inside the living?
He was a man within a man.
Wearing the name of a writer
from the Irish renaissance.

In August I asked Siri: How big is a hug supposed to be?
She reached out and put her hand on my heart machine.
Don’t worry kid, love is such a silly thing.

In September I tried to write a book. I got drunk and wrote
a song instead: Beds are graves in progress. 
It was shit. My tongue spun vermillion threads around
my pen until
it split.

If planes are so safe, why do they have instructions telling you what to do when it crashes?

In November I tried to notice things more. The hush that
rolls around the leaves. Everyone died and I screamed. Trying to fill
earth holes with my voice before those I love could fall in.

The next month, lungs dropped; straight from the sky into the furnace.
I burnt holes in my skin. I drank sweet toxic love and
whispered wreck me into a pillowcase.

On the last day I met a woman
on a rooftop in Berlin
and we shared our stories
like hand cream.

You know what, she said as she put
my head between her breasts:
2017 will be our year Liebling.