BOYD

Do you ever want to walk on the edge?

Jump, scratch, talk, fuck on the edge?

Kill yourself, call for help, wish for wealth: on the same goddamn edge.

Susan called — all I could think of was the time we made a fort, smoked pot, and laid there on the edge.

I had to fight the urge to slowly roll, to fall off the edge as I held her.

What changed my mind?

Thinking of Boyd and our pizza party on the edge.

It was after my 22nd birthday. We drove to the edge in your grandmother’s powder blue Cadillac. Listening to Wu-Tang & recounting Phaedrus. You wanted me to lick your ear, to hover over your dick, my mouth tasting like tropical Swisher Sweet. Instead I contested what Socrates, I mean Plato (whatever), meant about love and lovers. I needed to tell you to stop thinking about our lives outside of this powder blue Caddy.

 

It was never going to happen for us. Not sustainable. Maybe I could visit, straddle you, call you daddy. On occasion we could mail each other postcards and I would send you a disposable camera with prurient images of my succulent lips: after my bath, before dinner, and while I was day dreaming of sitting on your lap. Signed with a sloppy thumb print. No return address: the same goddamn edge.

 

(Source: veraclaeys)

                                               Gustav, dear.

                       

He always appeared in the dark, with his briefcase and floral knapsack

Holding his rosary and playing mother and yet he never choked.

                       

And what do we say about him? Dear Gustav, dear friend. Never leave. We can be neighbors and I’ll tuck you in. Your flannel sheets, the red ones I told you not to purchase. They are infesting your room with lint. You say its economical,why purchase carpeting, proper? And that’s what I hate! Your silly illogical responses. Illogical to me and I’m your neighbor. The one who tucks you in.

Oh Gustav. When you die, I’ll wear your clothing and tell everyone how I cared for you. How you took me to the cemetery to cheer up. “None of us are getting out of here alive”, you’d say. I know.

                       

You asked me to leave you in your red flannel sheets when we put you away. It made me uncomfortable really, how prepared you were and how fucking pristine you looked when I found you. Did you really moisturize right before? You are wearing death well neighbor.