I’ve used the figures lying on beds with a hypodermic syringe as a form of nailing the image more strongly into reality.
— Francis Bacon
except it’s ridiculous, this attempt
we are always trying both to get in
and get out and what are we left
with? a hypodermic syringe
which only reminds me of his face stopping time
he ran his hands up my legs, dead,
i thought, we all end up dead
but everyone was singing sex and sex and sex, attempting
to forestall the tyranny of time
that’s one way to remain in
reality, another is: a hypodermic syringe
use that and what’s left?
what you’re left
with is something more than death:
a hypodermic syringe.
she told me they’re getting married, an attempt
(they are trying, so hard, to stay in)
there’s more than one way to stop time
just as divorce is happening, there is time
to use up everything, use up what is left
i got high thinking: staying out or in
either way results in death
this is one way or another attempt
just another (hypodermic syringe)
way (this nail, this hypodermic syringe)
he was making reality, altering time
his o.d. white face almost waking, my attempt
(what remains, what is left)
i was chanting to keep him dead
his eyes singing sex and sex and sex, in
my skin, up my legs, and on in-
to my body, his gaze a hypodermic syringe
and onto reality with this, his dead
eyes stopping time
pretending death isn’t what’s left
isn’t just this final attempt:
playing dead, trying to stop time
this way, nailing it in with a hypodermic syringe
using what’s left, a shade of red, anything, one last attempt