’til Death


The problem with a blood pact
is that you can’t take it back.


It looked like the scene of a crime & I suppose it was:
manufactured by a fucked-up mentality,
fuelled by charlie & whisky & pity,
it was a crime against sanity,
a crime of stupidity

& now I’m gonna have to serve my time until one of us dies.


I’m stuck to you with claret glue
but you are badbadbad news. I’m bad
news too, but you think I’m the best
thing that’s ever happened to you.
That’s just one of the reasons why
it was a fucking stupid thing to do.


Your dark red dabs remain
underneath the fresh magnolia paint
& I had to throw your Adidas jumper
& my favourite Cobain t-shirt away.

It was a good idea at the time:
the unification of two bedlamites,
the formation of an everlasting alliance
between the perpetually misunderstood,
but the knife in the drawer & the scar across my palm
remind me that you do me far more harm than good.

With blood smeared on our faces like war-paint
& Eminem elected as our patron saint,
how we laughed & thought we’d finally
found our place in the world:

together, against it.


“Dream Team, baby.”

“Nightmare Pair, baby.”


Now that we are family,
bound by loyalty, I can’t
get rid of you. (Well, I can).

We always said we’d go out
on the blaze of glory & this
is definitely gonna end badly.

(You think you’re Sid but, trust me,
it’s more likely you’ll end up like Nancy.
Ah, God. It would be way too fucking easy…)


The problem with a blood pact
is that you can’t take it back:
you’ve got me as a friend
’til the bitter, twisted end
& believe me, I’m just as
angry about this as you
(we are such
fucking foolish
fucking fools).


Originally published at Punk Noir Magazine here.


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