Suicide

When Sylvia wrote
I-have-done-it-again,
You and I ooh-aah-ed;
Of what use is that
To dust six feet under?


In the good well he was found,
And his kid still quite fresh
Hanging from the new fan,
So was it with Sita and Sati,
Honour, despair, fine words.


Cowards, idiots at least;
With bulging eyes, bloated
Carcass, shit-smeared,
Not even a pretty sight,
Exiting with no encore.


Let’s be fair.
How long
Will I care
When you’re use-
Less, dead or alive?


But, you’ve nothing to kill,
By my hand or yours;
On a strange silent path,
Poor, alone and dreaming,
Hardly a page three dreary.


With a fine company of ghosts,
Madmen not so street-smart,
Worthless dead in worthy wars,
Faceless, voiceless, lifeless,
You live a suicide every day.