Keep Popping that Pill/Flowers on a Grave

Keep Popping that Pill/Flowers on a Grave

Keep Popping that Pill

You're not a man, you're a needle; it's not semen, it's a drug, accelerating my heartbeat and blurring my vision.

And as the sweat trickles between my breasts I hear you moan and whisper you love me -

This is it, throbbing in me, what I've been waiting for, living for; finally, a place where I am alive; and I know that I'll never leave your bed, that I'll always be sucking from you like a babe from its mother: helpless, dependent -
Addicted to dopamine like a whore to crack.

That's what you are you're a drug you're a fix you're a high you're a love-making hit
you're an addiction and I can't quit -
I'M JUST AS BAD AS YOU.

-

Flowers on a Grave

If you died, I would smoke a cigarette on your grave.
I'd still be underaged, of course; if you die, it will be soon, and by your hand. But that's okay - I have money, and older friends. I would saunter casually down to the cemetery, lean against the smooth marble, draw in the ash - slowly, gently, attempting to savour a taste I know will make me want to vomit.

If you died, I would smoke a cigarette on your grave.
Recalling all the times you offered me a smoke, or a joint, or a fuck, or a philosophy; all the times you tried to lure me into your tar-black dreams, and I always refusing; tempted by the edge of existence, scared of what lies beyond.

And of course it would be too late to say "yes": all I'd have left of you would be memories growing colder by the day.

If you died, I would smoke a cigarette on your grave...
Try to remember how you smelt...

If you died, I would smoke a cigarette on your grave...
...Cry...


When it was over stub it out on the headstone, discard it into the grass. Scatter the rest of the packet on the square of turf that is "you", crumple the blue square in my hand and drop that among them -

And the others strolling by to mourn at their own rectangles of grief will see the orange-and-white cylinders, the warning-embossed packet, scattered faux-casually on the ground, and think:
"How disgraceful.
Smoking in a sacred place.
Littering on hallowed ground."

The vast majority of the human race will see only ignorance and disrespect in my gift of slow, branded death.

You&me will know the truth.

I know you'd like it that way...

-

B-Side

Cigarettes and flowers...
You smell of stinking cigarettes, like I hate and despise and wish you would quit.
You smell of rotting, decaying flowers; the cheapest shampoo you could find.

I love it.