bitter
where the weak and dying
lay, like potted plants
beneath the electric fires
they let consume the sky.
occasionally the record skips
and sometimes the morphine screams
empty
or sometimes there's music
like a violinist with a knife
for a bow -
sharp, sour, and then nothing.
and occasionally the lights go dim
when one stretches skyward
and stammers quietly for static.

when the phone rings,
I answer it
so she can tell me she's still
missing the notes,
skipping the beats.
I know --
machines are music now,
and enough pills will warm the floor
with her skin.
she's teaching the doctors' machines
how to skip beats
ho o kip e ts
how to sk sk sk iiiiiip
p p p p be a a ats ts ts.

she's showing the machines how
to boil away painfully
in the electric blue flames.
I don't blame her ---
she's only human.

the lights are dimming,
the morphine is screaming,
and I can't cry anymore.
I'm waiting for static
to take all the beats away.

(i don't think it will be long now)