Not Happy Enough
Neither was Kurt Cobain
and Hemingway at the end and
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
sex with prostitutes
too much drinking on occasion
non-stop pot smoking
ya ba and
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
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