Tag Archives: #pathology

TRYING TO SPEAK THE UNSPEAKABLE

Is it a society of wicked liars?

Is it a race of contemptible malefactors?

Or is it, instead, just a group of people coming to terms with their lives in a different way?

A growing number of people are choosing to live—and die—without judgment, without the reward of popularity, without the flattery of public adulation.

Most people—without much fuss—are choosing to die quietly, often in comfort, not coughing up blood, losing organs, gasping for air. Rather, they do the things they like, they have their lovers, fall in love again. They experience as many experiences as possible. They have children, watch them grow up, let them out. They do the things they love. In fact, they do as much as possible.

Maybe they are only one of millions who will die this way, quietly, without much attention at all. But for those who read about the Swedish model, maybe they’ll read about this man who, when he was ten years old, decided to end his life when his family wouldn’t let him live the life he wanted to. Maybe they will read about one of the last people on the planet who were given the opportunity to kill themselves.

Maybe they will read about the first person.

Whether he knew it or not, it was Doran, the poet, who led us here. In 2020, when he was 36, he pulled his wife and a friend onto a commuter train in Paris. They sat at a table, drank wine, and ate wild boar with the train’s conductor.

After that, he had a drink with friends. By 2:

Then they all took colors all within their head. And they tried to say the unspeakable.

:: 10.21.2020 ::


YOU CHOKE UPON THE APRON STRINGS OF MISS CLEAVER

You choke upon the apron strings of miss cleaver and
wish you could have a piece of blue-laced sky on a plate
tasting the battery acid of your generation you wish to

die

it’s all for the praise of a god you dropped to the floor
all for the reasons you gave up for wishing you had taken

the gold plated door into your oblivion of consumer

products like a societal whore who begs for more

:: 11-02-2014 ::


THIS DECEASED DREAM

REDUCED I feel so lightly
and say no more than ‘sword’
Gently digging-cutting
so scorned a love as yours
—  bleeding–killing vicious
The soul I once so loved
— and gently knew…
withered before
my bleeding eyes
A kiss to you my ghost
and gently sweep away
from dust to dust as most
I once believed in us
But now I lay to rest
this deceased dream I must

::12-30-2013::