when I come to know or understand who he is
I will cease to write of John Carey (and,
laying my pen down at the graveside
of that simple, difficult, unhappy man
I shall witness the movement of this body on cracked
camera screens – too now, I find his gait dangerous
& shall recall reflections, smoking slim
cigarettes & cut filters with eyes closed & merry
I shall see again his drinking; swirling spirits & pint glasses –
he puts it away worse than I thought; no grace to it;
I had always hoped there was grace to it)
I was unfortunate enough to watch him atrophy;
for endless portraits never painted
& rehearsing lines & justifications for
interviews on international conan
or quiet youtube coffees with Scott Thurston
which never came.
One of the main purposes of my writing has always been introspection. This is not because I believe that I am, in any way, better or more more interesting or even more worthy than anyone else. This is because I am a complete narcissist and, in some ways, I am less worthy of introspection than the universes I pass everyday. Still; if I can find something, anything, some beauty or poetry or art or anything else in this shell of a body – in this corpse of a man – then couldn’t that have reprecussions for the entirety of our species? When even the lowliest amongst us, even the spiritually low and those with damnation and no hope in their veins, have something worth investigating in their souls or their heads or their hearts or their sexual organs, couldn’t that become a rallying cry for art and humanity itself?
No. That’s not true. I just want an excuse to drink, and jerk off in the mirror.