death

death
after Jesus by Brand New

We stand on a corner where
all the cars drive too fast. And you’ve
got a bottle of whiskey. You take a pull and spit it out. Screaming “This tastes like
wood.” I laugh as i take a drag
and lean against one of those telephone poles that is covered in
nails from posters that the wind has ripped off and crucified on to car windshields

We sit at the corner all night. Fighting off the

sleep so that we might see an accident. A death if we’re lucky.
Inside we know it’s wrong. As we sit with fingers crossed. The sounds
of sirens echoing in our minds. We just want to know death.
This way we are prepared. So we will know when to unplug the
machine.