hagiography

I looked up a dead man today,

quite by accident you understand,

it's just that I was …

… bored,

floored by my own incompetence.

I found him and me,

our names written on the door of a lavatory,

and those hundreds, who used the cubicle after,

probably read our scratched in banter … er … er … er

e

r

while they sat and shat.

To avoid any notion of

pain,

regret,

loss,

grief,

I gritted my teeth and …

(shhhhhhhhh)

attempted to replace frustration with masturbation.

It didn't work.

No matter whose face I imagined I imagined.

It's like my friend said:

'Just because they're dead,

it doesn't mean their voice

has been erased from the answer machine'.