After A Few Whiskeys, Who Gives a Fuck? (fuckicantthink) wrote in poetunderground,
After A Few Whiskeys, Who Gives a Fuck?

Choke, Icarus

Choke, Icarus
Your suicide note was pointless;
a ramble, a talk-show-radio rant
your wife had said death would become you
your children were crying with purple, cosmic skins
knitting themselves back together, after you
you: a rage, a lividity; you threw the sun agaisnt cement
he cried, his sister watched, his mother -
she downed a vodka before coming to his rescue
shaking, ink-stained hands ‘stop, icarus’
and you did.
and you flew:
your wings, made of wax
sizzled on the electricity lines
that snake from our houses to our streets
it worked as good as any other means; your wings
stitched together and ochre (of the earth), they fluttered
your final valediction: blue and red feathers, fluttering down
machinery whirred onwards, and we got your suicide letter in the mail
i asked ‘could icarus die?’ and my mother nodded, sombre
we lit a candle for you, and we saw your burning in its very middle
we held a service, and we wore your favourite skin shade
we said goodbye to your rotting face – i even kissed it
i kissed you, i mean
you: a quiet, choking, bloated face
emmett till without the rage
peaceful in your cartoon disgrace
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