I also wrote the below poem in 1985 when I was 19, 10 days before the "Ginny poem" below. I think inspired by the glamorization of self-destruction in "The Wall," which I'd just seen. What "The Wall" meant to me was... "Your pain means something." It showed many of us that we were not alone in our various reactions to whatever psychological terror we'd experienced. We could kill ourselves in reaction, or we could codify it into art, which is what the protagonist of the movie (and, I suppose, the soundtrack's primary composer Roger Waters) apparently did. I also chose the "codify" route.
Vodka shots off walls cataclysmic
in finality and you take the razor-bath literally
with Gauloises and truth in static overdose run
amuck among brazen angels, the stab of infidelity
struck in bruised reflection and the telephone rings
(darling Pat), banal effortless you laugh
praying in time to head-pound echo and
(flash) sound is one-two blue
chasm widening ever-deep into flesh-fractured
doubt and unflattering in stone you choose your
weapon -- steel or acid (not self-contained) -- and wait
for spatial gates and lords of flies, the come-hither
stench of fluid wrist confessions.