The same day dreams
have been playing
in my head.
There is the one
where you disintegrate–
where your body
turns inwards to bars and
dark alleys and every hookup
ends with a noose
around your neck.
Afterwards, a funeral
march begs forgiveness.
Imagine classical music.
Imagine organs and fugues
and every single guitar
you’ve ever flicked
a cigarette at.
The world as you know it
is an impossibility.
Though you will shake
your fists at any anyone
who tells you some sins
do not vanish with
the body
everything eventually
becomes an excuse for
drunkenness. For
bankruptcy and
homelessness and
the kind of life story
that could fit
in a gutter.
This is how you disappear–
with a Guinness
in your pocket and
the vague memory
of a young man
turning into ash.

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