I didn't put up this piece because I thought most of you would have seen it on darkest_peru , but it's my suicide response, so I'll put it under the cut in case you have. I tried to write something entirely else about my one suicide attempt in the voice of my fifteen year old self, but I got bored, because fifteen is kind of a crappy mental age to be. So there is this, which is short, but I think there might be a nascent poem in there somewhere.
Paper my coffin with poems that look like the hands of beautiful women. Their pages should shroud me like Laertes, edges curled brown and sweet. When the dirge is sung, black and sere, if it is too much to ask that my mother claw her arms and tear her hair, at least cut my father's throat and shovel him in after me. Cover us in hyacinth and rosemary (for remembrance) so that the stench of our debauched passage through the valley of death will not stain the fungal cathedral-ceiling, our putrefying psalms wafting up into the soil like the smoke of a grey-bellied censer.
There must be a mass for the Freudian dead. A requiem for Electra and Oedipus with a swan chorus, braying out a moon-hymn, a menstrual canticle bubbling in the bone-chalice. Sew his eyes into her cheeks, sever her tongue and wash his feet with the foaming stump. What a chapel it would be, what walls and what splintered pews, whose altar birthed that surgery.
Scratch all that--bury me at sea, I cannot bear all this noise, all this earth piling its mother-memory onto my skull. Jocasta hung herself so that we could all forget her, shove her wrinkled breasts into a gold box and hang it up in St. Peter's. She did us a favor, cow-haunched and mute. Where can I go to escape her, to escape him, the gnashing parent-golems, offering the linen noose and the bathtub with grimy grins, teeth sliding in their heads, grunting their own nicotine-paean in 4/4 time?