for Noah Dietch
They said
you were depressed,
deeply upset
with society,
profoundly sadden
by the seeming
inevitability of
the
decline
of
humanity
and all
that.
They assigned
you a heart
after death,
but I know that's
all bullshit.
We used to talk
about suicide
all the time:
who'd have
the balls
to do it
first,
how would
we.
You didn't expect
anything
from life;
you weren't
sad;
you were
bored.
And you never
showered
or cared
about anything;
you stunk
and
everyone hated
you
when you
were alive.
And now
that you're dead,
the same people
that called you
names and
kicked you
while you
were passed out
on the kitchen floor
find it
easy to
care about you,
to call you
great things,
to mourn
for a good,
intelligent,
poor, poor
fucking friend.
But you lead
a wasteful
and dry life.
You were a loser.
Cough syrup and
vodka and pills
and acid
and bad
Jim Morrison
poems.
As they
gather around
your grave
on the cold
October
ground,
I forget
everything
but
the memory of
you and me
sharing
a King Cobra
on the curb
of Cedros
and Aetna Avenue.
And you'll look
down on us
from God's bedlam
in utter
condescension
and laugh
out loud
on how you pulled off
the greatest prank,
slapping Christ
on the back
and asking him
for a cigarette.