"Death [rev.]" This Fuckin' Guy Attempts a Rewrite

Death [rev.]
Considering how fucking old I am
I have not experienced a shitload
Of pull-your-heart-out-of-your-chest-
And-kick-your-fuckikng-ass-from-here-to-
I-don't-fuckking-know-where-the-fuck-kinda-deaths.
Some. One already this year.
But not all that fucking many.

But I'm about to.
I'm fucking about to.
I'm about to experience another fucking one.

And I've never, ever, ever in my entire fucking life,
Been able to even fucking, fucking try
To tell someone who was about to fucking die
How much I love them
How much they fucking mean
How much..I don't fucking know
How much fucking everything.

But I did. I fucking did. I fucking tried.
I fucking tried, at fucking least.
I fucking tried.

By way of fucking background
When we fucking lived together
Susannah Fucking Ryan taught me fucking mountains of shit
Including a shitload of mystical shit
She designed and fucking executed the fantastic fucking record cover
For the King Missile album "Mystical Shit"
We smoked pot, drank coffee, read books, studied the fucking tarot and  kabbala and Crowley and really fucking loved each other,
Really fucking did.

I was unable, after I quit drugs,
To fucking keep it together with her
My fucking fault--not hers. Not hers. Not hers.

I spoke with her Monday on the motherfucking phone
And heard her beautiful fucking voice
Like it wasn't 25 fucking years ago
Like it was fucking last week or yesterday
Or some fucking shit.
Our conversation lasted as long as I could motherfucking stand.

She fucking thanked me
For taking that fucking proofreading class
Because she took it too,
And it ended up being her fucking career.

She told me she fucking saw parts of me in her son, James Elijah,
And that it's fucking interesting how you can see parts of other people in your children
Even though those other people are not biologically related to your children,
Because those other people are in you.
Am I fucking crazy for thinking that that is absolutely fucking right?
That makes perfect motherfucking sense to me.

She spoke of a fucking crystal
That she had put in the fucking window of her hospital room
And how a motherfucking bird had come near it that morning,
And how she's fucking happy she has this fucking window and can see the fucking mountains.
“The window makes me free,” she fucking said.

Then she said this:
"I'm sorry to be the center of suffering.
But it's nice to know that you love me enough to suffer."

That's when I lost my shit
That's when I had to hang up.
And I told her I would fucking call her again.
I certainly fucking will. I fucking will.
I still fucking haven't but I will. I fucking will.
And when I do, I will probably have to tell her
That I haven't fucking found those photographs
That I don't even know if I fucking have.
But I will keep looking. I fucking will.

These words say fucking nothing
Nothing can really say anything.
You can't really fucking capture someone's essence.
I couldn't do it Monday; and I fucking can't right now,
In this, another fucking meaningless fucking moment
Full of meaning.

Just fucking know this, motherfuckers:
She is really fucking something
Really fucking amazing
Really fucking amazing
Fucking fuck.
10/20/2014, rev. 10/26/2014