eleven

I'm listening to a very short tribute to Joy Division on the radio, and i'm thinking,

this is it
this is what i want
this is what i've felt my entire life but couldn't put into words, not so aptly as it was put in the music aand lyrics of this band, and the ghostly, sepulchral voice

and i wonder is this it?
you can tie a cord around your neck and hang, let it be over
it makes sense, right now, it makes perfect sense
because there's nothing
unless suicide is only reserved for geniuses
in which case i'm screwed
and my gesture would be totally lost on everyone
and become an ugly joke

I'm not really thinking about suicide, only about death.
Though, i'm in a point in my life where nothing can break through this, whatever, veil or wall i've shrouded myself with, embalm the rusty, rotting being with injections of other people's poetry, solitude, alcohol, pills, defeat, anger. I can only sleep when in physical pain because it takes away the doubts, the thoughts, the longing.

everything is falling apart.
everything is decomposing.
destruction is subtle.
it's a tender collapse.

every physical being, from the moment of its birth, carries the seed of its disintegration, every organ a hot oven where life slowly rots, every chemical composure and connection slowly breaking down to the simpler substances of air, water. death ferments in every belly. every minute strips flesh of one's bones. it starts with dead cells that cover the bed and floor and furniture like very fine dust, but it's only the thin veneer of your dead self, floating particles of deadness, what the body won't use any more. it starts with broken fingernails, falling hair, separation of intimate organic fluids. le mort petit means you've died a little because your physical body has just given up a vital amount of what was inwardly yours, safe in its glands, it has released part of your life into another being's cavity or whatver, the amount of semen, dead or alive, is lost and never coming back. they're emptying you out, little by ittle, drop by drop. a tender process. the thrill, electricity, rapture ur supposed to feel when you cum, it's not the wonder of life, it's the caress of death, like when you lie in bed or on the floor limp and helpless after the discharge, it's death that rears its ugly skull and laughs at you.

Or maybe it's just depression.

smash the mirrors.
smash the glass.
smash someone's face.
smash yourself.
just listen to the sound of breaking.