D. B. DEVILLIERS

Poetry

Tag: suicide

October 22, 2023

On The Interior Lives of Insects


I don’t know but I do know that when I
know I’ll know it

the world spins faster and faster, flattens
to a disc, a symbol applied like a grinding wheel to
rustspots in the larger frame of things
but the wheel won’t beat the rate of rot
and we are drifting much too far apart
where light cannot cross
and the wheel fragments in a shatter of shooting
stars.

descriptors of set and scene.
the sun goes up and down and up and
down the world wobbles like a child’s
toy at the end of its tether and now it is
fall and now it is spring and now it is
summer and now it is all wrong—
the deer have dropped their
horns and the leaves have leapt and
everything of course is the same in its
perpetual flux
send me won’t you please
the sun cuts a pale ribbon bisecting blue
days from nights flickering manic like a strobe light.

hands of clocks like fanblades
like the whirring workpiece on a lathe
into which one finds oneself drawn screaming by
hair or shirtsleeve, pulled headlong through the
vast unhesitating machinery of time
whose drive passes unacknowledged
this howl to endless tandem suns in one
great streak, issued already flat
from a form yet young but
already dust
send me to heaven

some words you write just to shout
and until then they lay there dead on the page
and who knows what happens to them after that.
the ghosts in my knotted soul will quiet
for a while.
dawn comes, I guess, and you
carry on.
that’s what you do.

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November 22, 2022

Yellow-tooth unsmile

Did you guys know I used to write poetry
a hundred thousand years ago I wrote
a poem
only one I ever wrote
I thought it was beautiful
I thought a lot of things were beautiful
once upon a time a million years
ago I thought words meant
anything, and then I drank a
lot and a lot of people had to
die and I don’t fucking know
why I wasn’t
one of them
but I wasn’t, and so what now

a long long time ago I wished to
know the unhappiness I know
quite well now
and if I had to guess I’d guess that in
ten years I’ll write another poem
talking about the fresh miseries
I couldn’t even conceive now but sure
will
ten years from now
that’s if I’m lucky

the feelings are never new, nothing is new
just the intensity
maybe if I’m lucky, sometimes I think
I won’t have hands to write with ten
years from now through the dirt
I was so many things I am so many things
what the fuck happened
what have I done
I look in the mirror and I say affirmations
that’s my shame
I look in the mirror and smile yellow and
that’s my shame

I don’t smile anymore
that’s my shame
I can’t look at the consequences
I listen to my favorite song and I want to
tell the frontman he
ruined my life
and then ask him for a cigarette
while we smoke I’ll ask him:
when you started in music was it your
intention to kill your fans and he’ll say

no
I don’t know
I never really thought about it

or one of them walked off stage
when a fan told him that her
sister killed herself to the song he
had begun to play
he left the venue and drank himself into
oblivion, is what I heard
and he still is, is what I hear

there is a burden to making art
no it ain’t digging canals or mining coal
but there is a toll
and I think about this and do I even want it
considering my usual subject matter
if I ever get a fan
will I kill them
but then I consider, it isn’t the making art
in itself that’s the problem
it’s the psychological deficiencies which
lend themselves to art-making

oh well Dustin that’s a little much isn’t it
well I don’t know if it is
life imitates art, sort of thing
ha
ha

I am too much, always been
should I change?

yeah

and when I’m happy
if anyone is
I will throw my typewriter

(I still use one; there is a satisfaction
in relatively simple mechanical objects
typewriters, pens, guns)

from the top of the highest cliff I can find
I already have one picked out
just waiting on the first part

but the more likely outcome, of course
when I’m gone someone else will
let it collect rust and stardust in their
basement or garage because no one
wants to write but
some people
seem to
have to

someone said that they’ll love him when
he’s dead
but I’m loved right now
not for my art, of which there is
none
these are the ravings of a fucked up mind
which is already
readily apparent

I wear my shame like a mirror

and I see myself in it
always

my brother hasn’t spoken to me since
July of this year
and my sister hadn’t spoken to me since
July of this year
I imagine myself writing about
how I’ve not spoken to my siblings
in fifteen years and I’m
stubborn enough to do that
if I’m lucky enough to live that long
and he was married to a nice girl
and my sister dates one too

I’m drunk enough to write a poem
my roommate is drunk enough to
burn the house down
he’s making bacon
the quotidian bullshit of life
it’s 2:40am
I am
the sum total
of very little
I’m 6’1 and I’m
cooking breakfast
my mercedes
benz sits in the driveway
and I listen for the
repo truck like my
Dad did a hundred
thousand years
ago

I sit and lately I watch the TV
and I watch the shows I’ve seen maybe
ten or fifteen times
and I talk to them
the characters
I advise them
who are often about to die
how not to
and now that I write about it I think
I never advise the killers how to kill
maybe maybe maybe
please let it be true
I’m not that bad

I don’t know what broke my heart
was it a girl in 2013
was it myself in 2012
did I die on that beach of my
own fucking volition
sometimes I think I’m already dead
I don’t know what broke my heart

are you really there
would anyone even read this
I wouldn’t
but are you there
am I going to die
I’m asking you
am I
do I have to
I don’t want to

do I have to

I don’t want to
do I
have to?
yes
well will I then and when
probably not yet
but when I’m gone maybe someone will
read this and think
damn
he was hung up on himself
and even thought he could
preempt this criticism by
mentioning it
but it doesn’t work that way
and I am what I I I I I
a common feature in my writing, the I
I I I I I am so
fucking important
aren’t I
aren’t I

and there is always an end to the poem
all things end
thank fuck
the circuit closes the liver
fails and a curtain falls and
my parents cry
no father should ever bury his son
someone once told me
is there second life, am I re-
incarnated as a toad in the middle
of a road
like someone else said
I hope so

I don’t have much hope anymore but
maybe I will again
I hope so.

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January 18, 2022

Dustin Always Was And Still Remains Staunchly Anti-Death, Ideologically-Speaking

here’s what you have to do:
it’s ok, just here’s what you have to do:

you just have to do it perfectly
every single time
and you have to do it all day every day
and you have to do it perfectly every
single time
all you have to do is, and it’s easy, just
never fuck up, not even once, you just
can’t fuck up, not in the smallest way, not
once, and you have to do it
every single day
all of the time
forever
really, it’s easy, and the stakes aren’t that
high if you do end up fucking up
just one time in some tiny way
because then it’s not your problem anymore
because

it’s ok when the curtain rolls it’s ok baby it’s
ok you won’t be there to hurt anymore the
stakes aren’t that high and unfortunately
they’ll have to put you in the dirt but
that won’t really be you anymore you
won’t meaningfully meet the worms and
with your lengthening nails won’t leave
any sad little scratches and you’ll get to
wear the dress you wanted because they’ll
cover your arms with foundation and no
one will see and the
stakes aren’t that high they aren’t
that high it’s only everything my love we
only stand to lose everything it isn’t
anything at all when the light is gone the
problem is not your problem anymore
there is no you there is no me there is no
poetry no words no name no stakes to
wager on no game no love to lose no life
no hope no life no love no
pain no pain
no

you only have to do it
every single day
forever

it’s nothing at all

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December 31, 2021

There’s Some Kinda Dream To Herald The Trailing Edge Of The Year Here, And There’s Beauty Somewhere Else

there are things I want
there are things I need
there are things that overlap
there are things I can’t do
there are things I can
there are things that overlap

I’m standing at the edge of something
there were conversations I thought I
would remember
there were dreams I had
here’s one:
I’m standing at the edge of something or
someone or somewhere
the air is electric with anticipation
I walk but I do not move, rather
the ground moves
there is a great white light, a great heat
then the sound and fury and my
biology becomes chemistry and my
chemistry becomes physics
that’s how carbon behaves in the presence of
vast quantities of energy it’s all
just math in the end, rules things follow
particles under pressure and heat
and I wake up
and it’s dark outside still
I take a piss and forget the dream
which will recur.

there is so much beauty in the world
it is astonishing and overwhelming to behold
there is so much worth staying alive for
I’m learning to really believe it
really believe it
the sharp earnest edge of my hope:
there is love in the world and it sounds like
text me when you get home
it sounds like merry christmas happy new
year
there is love in the world and it sounds like
I love you
it sounds like everything
and it doesn’t have to be so fucking awful
anymore
it doesn’t have to be like that

let me believe it christ please let me
believe in it let me please I want to
believe that I can do this thing and I
don’t have to go I don’t want to go please don’t
make me make myself go please
please
I am going to stay
I am going to stay

that’s the dream.

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December 18, 2021

Esmeralda On The Lake

There was an interview of sorts and I
was asked if I might not
be willing to do something
harder than anything I could possibly
imagine.
It was made clear to me that the
task I would undertake was difficult beyond
reckoning and so
I guess I can’t say I didn’t know what
I was signing on for
and in a spasm of hubris I said yes
I was willing to be born

something terrible is going to happen
something terrible is happening here
I can feel it in the marrow of my bones
I can feel it in my failing kidneys and my
larger than life liver and my inflamed
pancreas and in the structures of the
brain dedicated to production of
certain key neurotransmitters
and the ones awfully affected by their absence

the bullet destroys the structures of the
brain which are responsible for
the bullet destroys the structures of the
brain which take in sensory stimuli such as
pain and sound and so you won’t even
hear the bullet which destroys the
structures of the brain which failed to
function adequately such that
you might have foregone the
bullet destroys the structures of the
brain which might have wanted to keep
on but that fucking screaming and the
straw goes up the nose and the bottle
inverts and don’t worry your sister called an
ambulance so not tonight
not that you wanted it tonight

something terrible is going to happen

wake up to the fluorescent light like an atomic blast
briefly wish it really was one
ok so that happened, that was something that happened
hello world good morning here comes Dustin clawing back into consciousness you tried your
best but here I am still kicking like a
motherfuck

I wrote most of this poem a while ago
I was very unhappy.
I then proceeded to suffer a lot and fight
a lot and then I went ahead tonight and
finished the poem.
Bullet never came.
I’m approximating happier.

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December 12, 2021

562 Wyoming Ave, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love My Mood Disorder, Pt. II

Now I shall spy on beauty as none has
spied on it yet. Now I shall speak of love
as none have before. I shall speak of pain
reflected in the rear-view, drawing blood
from the neck to precipitate the rush,
the icy twinge at the back of the throat.
Now I shall show you pain beyond compare—
stare into my bloodshot eyes and I’ll stare
into yours and our irises blacken
muscles of the jawline clench and teeth crack.
Sunrise sunset several sudden years pass.
At some point, you left. Leaves died on the trees.
There was an equinox. The moon waned small.
It felt like the darkest night of the fall.
But it was four PM and sunny skies
belied the black intention.
Now I shall speak of hypothermia
now I shall speak of shock paddles and I
shall speak of cardio-pulmonary
resuscitation and ambulance rides
no one remembers. Psychiatric wards,
puzzled MDs, resilient nurses, doors
with knobs equipped with conical steel shrouds
to shrug off any permanent attempts
at checking out. There was another man
who told me late one night that he would die
by his own hand. Just a matter of time.
Maybe he did. I don’t recall his name.
I met his family. Nice enough people.
Sometimes there’s just no reason for it all.
There was another—my roommate named Gabe.
His I remember. One evening we sang
a punk song, top of our lungs, down the hall.
A little brightness til they made us stop.
He hanged himself from a tree that next fall.
Sometimes there’s just no reason for it all.

Now I shall spy on beauty as none has
conceived before. Nearly a decade’s passed.
I sit here with a pencil, yet again
residing in an institution and
I contemplate the swift passage of sand
right through the spindly hourglass of my hand.
It frequently feels like nothing has changed.
Until we wake up in a different state
three inches shorter, half a century gone
a couple kids with kids and rulered lawns
a liver-spotted visage, pitted, loose
arthritic fingers fumbling at the noose
they never tied. The end result belied
our best intentions. Maybe someone cried.
I did. I still do. Maybe always will.
I love you. I love you. I just have to.
When you’re decades gone, I hope I still do.
******* I knew you. Maybe you knew
me too. It’s hard to say. Can anyone
know anyone at all? I surely hope
perhaps against all hope that this is true.
And at least I know to whom I shall speak
in graphite silence. At least I know who
can see my screaming soul through time and space
and ghostly rest your head against my arm
and whisper back to me words I once knew
and I’ll fade.
Sometimes there’s just no reason for it all
but sometimes…

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October 23, 2020

Eight Years

Isn’t it so hard to be a person
I think it’s pretty hard to be a person.

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October 20, 2018

Lazarus Sort Of Story Maybe Except I’m Decidedly No Saint

I don’t think about it much anymore
which is probably a healthy thing
nice day though it was
clear day, air crisp, chilly
and I probably shouldn’t even put my name on this because
a lot of people just don’t understand
they can’t
I envy them a little for that
the road to the lake was clothed with dead leaves
I walked there
not far
as fine a fall day as any no doubt
and for a fact the water was freezing
even after a fifth of scotch it surprised me just how cold
cold enough I was pretty certain
cold enough I hoped
cold enough
and indeed it probably was
I don’t remember much from then on
on account of I lost consciousness
til I was in the ambulance
then I sort of half regained it
which ambulance arrived timely like
otherwise I don’t think you’d be reading this poem
or any poem by me for that matter
my recall here is pretty hazy
consider after all the fifth of scotch
a seventeen year old can’t usually really have tolerance enough to manage that
turns out a woman walking her dog past the lake made the call
and happily for me
I didn’t die
but in some strange way I think I was born and
baptized in that frigid water
I believe that day
for the first time
I learned something about myself
and I do believe
five years eleven months and
twenty seven days ago
for the first time in my life
I lived

I’m glad for that
that I lived

and if I’m some kind of a shitty drunken Lazarus
and the paramedics are Jesus Christ
then I still owe him $562
and I’m not gonna pay him.

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October 18, 2018

Pictures Of Paintings

I am the petty god of my
particular lacking happiness, apathy
all the nice words I can use to
dress up pretty much nothing
I can hear them echo but the words don’t echo it’s sad
I think it’s sad how there was only ever but one way
and I guess we’re all just postponing it as long as we can
least if we’re lucky we are ourselves postponing
least if we’re real lucky it’s been decided by
someone else or something
or it’s just decided to remain undecided
it doesn’t matter what which way and we
step onstage to dress it up in colorful words maybe because
it makes us feel a little less awful
since it isn’t pretty or picturesque any more than is the
buckshot-interrupted aggregate grey matter spent
of artists failed and not, vexed to senseless lurid portrait painting
instant printed Jackson Pollock spray of crimson plasma
sulfur scented, boards behind the means congealed as time befits
photos lit in frame fluorescent greyscale selling papers
editors’ captions, name worth recognizance says someone
suicide says someone, maybe sadder than anything maybe
thereby might could coronate, apotheosize
a handful of willfully dead men
but that’s a lie because it doesn’t, not that
never that
but then again even god might paint the drywall with both barrels if he could
after all if I were him I would.

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September 27, 2018

Advice, Unsolicited

Whether it gets better or not I won’t speak to yet
but I know for a damned fact it doesn’t get easier
but you do get better at dealing with it
you get a little more used to it
and of course it never really goes away
if they’d told me that at seventeen I guess I’d likely be dead
so if you’re seventeen maybe don’t read this but
I’ve learned a few things since then
even if sometimes I can’t even remember them myself
and one thing I’ve learned is that even if you live
for a hundred years
you’re alive a very short time
and you’re dead a very long time
so better make what you can of being alive
you’ve got to try
every once in a while even
just a little bit even
you’ve got to try
you’ve got to.

I’m of the opinion that those who give advice are usually
telling others to do what they themselves
didn’t do

that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

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