She wears my Pavement T-shirt
like a gravestone wears the dead
to a passer-by who knows neither band nor corpse.
It was a grey morning and the rain
flickered in and out of the air
as tears were held on the tips of tongues. Actually
I'm lying, it was bloody hot
and we preferred to have a waterfight than a funeral
and the various stones of all our days were shields.
Mount me in the morgue, drain
my blood, fill my veins with gin
and we'll do our best to forget
that all our friends are dead, my favourite band
defunct, and every ceremony we concoct
is just the wilful murder of everything we know,
forget that from the corners of the room
the corpses are crawling ever closer
like the future.