ENVY
You'll come home from the noise gig you just played
the boys from the scene will have seen you
raise a two hundred gram bottle of mint liquor
when the bands and the artists switch up
but they're used to it,
they've seen you drunken as a sailor:
saint Nicholas, patron of the sea
a sea of vodka and wine red as blood.
So they'll shower with compliments
"my head hurts, man, how'd you shake that
noise box, what pedals did you use
when the amps imploded like that?"
And you come home from the noise gig
in that apartment near the police station
that we found so it's close to where I grew up
to my father, to my childhood
and my mother blessed us - "live together"
oh, she saw you as her own son.
So you come home and she hears the
keys dangle, the cat runs to the door to
wrap around you
she raises her head from the drawing pad:
she just sketched a demon
on top of a picture of you in the snow
your skinny black jeans and your fake leather jacket
your chain our belt and your boots everpresent
the demon protects you, it's holding
a black burton old-timey umbrella
that's the love of her sigil:
she deems you divinely protected.
She stands as you take off your jacket
the logo of your label I once embroidered
on the back of it, under your ancient backpack
she hugs you, you kiss her
your matching tattoos of a lightning bolt
touch as you hold her hand.
We never got matching tattoos, though we wanted.
How long have you been with her, two years?
Does she fuck like I do? Do you worship her body?
I gave you a fetish for shaved brows, short hair, and backdoors.
Does she have any of that?
Does her head fit your upper arm, does she sleep like that?
Does sow you all kinds of pills to get high on and fuck you and dance to Boyd Rice like I did?
"share my body and my mind with you"
Does she play old and forgotten Bulgarian punk bands force you to listen?
Did the bitch know shit about our beloved underground before she met you?
How'd you fucking fall inlove with this curly tasteless shadow of a pretty fame of a calligrapher?
Is this now your forte: taking clueless young naive groupies and giving them
a name in the scene: oh, she's dating the
very man right behind the goddamn Abandonment label?
Did you take her to your hometown?
Did your artist of a father like her measly drawings?
Of all: I cannot know peace until know one thing.
I am a disaster of a person.
I am fire and I gave you runs to the emergency after suicide attempts
and beat-up drunken sessions
and drugs in our home at all times
and feats of shared depression.
But we loved trough pain for years
and we saw the world the same way.
Does she?
Is she home, an island in a sea of hate, like I was?
Does your love know shared pain?
Is she a soulmate or a holiday?
A well-deserved break after the ruin I brought to you.
You loved me like no one else did.
You gave me the way to make art I make,
the music that follows me all around
and plays in my brain again and again,
e never had sex to Voev after we did.
I feel hate that makes my words smoke
when I see you at concerts, her standing
next to you screaming the lyrics like I did.
Cause I can not imagine you loving again
like you loved me.
Because I can not imagine myself loving again
at all.
And I hope her hair feels like silk in your hands,
and I hope her body seems holy.
As I rot in the clinic, the rehab facility, the
hospital after another overdose.
I hope you have strength to love again like this.
I don't.
And I love you still.
Our love's stuck between the shoulders of scissors,
our love's stuck beneath the glue we stuck on our posters
our love's stuck between pages of
old socialistic magazines we bought from the flea market.
I miss you, fourteen.
I miss being young and in love like that.
Before heroin watered my brain down,
before vodka became more important than I was.
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