The depths of the night

Let’s get fucked up,
see where the night takes us,
as if it ever took us anywhere nice.
When you start out that way it can’t,
it can only bring you down some depressing hole
that you’ll spend days
trying to crawl out of,
and it’ll be all caught up in your fragile head
in vague and worrisome fragments,
and it’ll be all on your skin,
and it’ll be Wednesday by the time
you feel like half a person
and on Thursday you can start all over again.

Let’s get fucked up,
let’s follow the night,
let’s journey like Celine
into the saddest crevices,
but with the powerful delusion
that it’s somehow glamorous,
that it’s freedom,
the freedom to say fuck it,
the freedom to say
I’m anti-life,
I’m anti everything and anything
that doesn’t want to fall catastrophically
into the night with me.

I’m anti all that’s good and nice
and because I’m young
I can believe that I’m right,
that it’s all a joke,
that the only ones that get it
are those of us that
self-destruct in the depths of the night.
And those days that we tremble
and we’re wary of our own shadow,
we say fuck it again.
All that matters is the night,
the dark depths of the night.

First published in Chantwood Magazine, Issue 13, March 2018


One thought on “The depths of the night

  1. Pingback: Las profundidades de la noche | Jean Duggan

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