Not Happy Enough

 

 

Neither was Kurt Cobain

and Hemingway at the end and

Hunter

and Sylvia

oh thank Lord there’s no guns in the

house and they don’t have gas ovens

here cuz they don’t

bake things here in Thailand and I’d

never icky cut my wrists so no with

the knives and the doc won’t give me

enough pills or I can’t horde ’em long

enough to get enough of ’em to, as

they say, “get the job done”

 

hanging’s out too, what kind of a jerk

would do that?

Just imagine me dangling at the end

of a noose!

 

No, I’ll do my suiciding the old

fashioned way

with cigarettes

sex with prostitutes

too much drinking on occasion

non-stop pot smoking

ya ba and

living the

writer’s bohemian no job life

like other writer guys

that didn’t really take a firm hand in

outright killing themselves but

rather let the tar or nicotine

or the booze

the drugs

do the job enjoyably for them.

I throw my liver and lungs

in with that crowd.

 

I’m not down with the

immediate cessation of life

scene.