I got more crap up here than if I lived a thousand years.

A filing cabinet stuffed with credit-card statements,
Doggerel, “love” letters, subpoenas, paperback novels,
Heavy locks of sex partners’ hair folded up in paper,
Hides fewer secrets than my blasted brain.
It’s a mausoleum, enormous walk-in freezer,
Holds more dead than a mass grave.
I’m a graveyard the moon hates,
Where remorse is the tunneling worm
Chomping through my dearest departeds.
I’m an old bedroom stuffed with wilted roses,
Strewn with last year’s castoff fashions,
Where sick pastels of fatted Boucher babies
Stink of talc and the open bottle.

The limping days are so fucking long
Snowed under by years and years and years and years.
Say it: Boredom born of apathy
Achieves immortality. Body, you’re nothing:
Bag of dread and granite crag, magma cooled,
Old sphinx in a fog, mumbling to self,
Forgotten by the whole giddy world,
Haranguing in the dwindling light.

              after “Spleen” by Charles Baudelaire
              ("J'ai plus de souvenirs que si j'avais mille ans.")