D. B. DEVILLIERS

Poetry

Tag: suicide

Eight Years

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

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.

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.

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.

Eighteen Words (Of Course It Isn’t Enough)

You left no note
but the rope
didn’t know
it was a cry
for help
and it held.


I’m sorry. I’m sorry it was you. I’m sorry it was anyone. If there were something I could have done, I wish I’d have done it. I hope there’s some peace to be found over there. I hope you’ve found it.

I really hope.

Letter To Myself/Ravings

Years ago
I remember
I wrote myself a letter
to be opened at some distant point in time
one long since passed by;
funny how the future seems to become
the past without ever really
being the present at all
it just barrels along too fast for anyone to keep up
and that’s why I never opened that letter
which I’d fully intended to read on the date
the date I’d arbitrarily chosen for reading that letter
but we’re two different people
my past and present selves
and not two people who’d get along
no, if I could speak to myself in the past
or pose a question to myself in the future
I wouldn’t
I wouldn’t say a fucking thing
because what I’d say to me at seventeen
if I could think of anything to say
would fall on deaf ears that
don’t know that
they can’t hear
and anything I could ask the future
couldn’t be answered—
not in any way I’d understand.

Maybe this is what people talk about
when they talk about living in
the moment
and taking it day by day
and those sorts of cliches
but I always figured it’d bring about some zen-like calm
serenity state of self-secure sangfroid.
No, another concern just slides up to take its place
like hydra heads springing from severed stumps.

There’s no winning since
all the players die first
the game beats itself
when no one’s left alive to play
and then it ceases to exist
for a game is no more than the people who play it.
I guess that’s why life itself is one game I don’t play
to win.
It’s rigged every which way
and it always wins
I don’t.
I guess the reason I play at all is that I’ve always done it
I can’t remember any different
and I often think about how I can jump to my feet, overturn
the table
draw down on the dealer
contact range, base of skull
crack
turn, level the pistol
toward the door, crack
crack crack round the deadbolt
bring my boot-heel to bear upon the mechanism and
run off into the night
but where would I go?
and what would I do?
I’ve got a sinking feeling that there’s
nothing past that door except nothing
so I’ll keep quiet and I’ll keep playing
keep losing, keep losing, keep the piece in its holster
dealers dealing, doors barring
medullae and lock cylinders intact.
I have a vague, sinking sense that there’s
nothing, nothing better out there.

Besides, the room is warm
the company’s not bad
the drinks are cold
and I’m losing with
utterly impeccable style
which in my experience is
much more memorable than merely
winning.

I haven’t read the letter, don’t intend to.
I’m too busy keeping busy
for
that.