I didn't write it for you
You hold vanity airtight in cynicist grip
as if the universe owes you
an explanation for existing.
Outspoken; prespoken piss ink
layered for the editers to finger unpasteurized.
I never needed you.
I lusted for the anger
burning in your apprehensive lyricism,
deft fingers, and the fairytale
I wanted to null the operas in my head.
I lead that symphony now
while you still fuck the needle
cradling a frightened child.
I hope ---- is nestled in your breast bone
like a horror novel
written just a bit too clearly.
I don't need you here.
All kinetic concepts
and licentious smiles
and things I won't mention
still strung taunt like ripped nylon thighs
on the streets of Mardi Gras.
You don't reconcile for the martyrs anymore.
The faggots, artists, addicts, visionaries, dreamers, philosophers
and all the other fixed faces
that suffer throwing tortured bones
into the sun like offerings
for a tomorrow we haven't begun to earn.
One chapped roughly against our lips
like a selfish trophy embellished
for the clouds to judge.
I bet I could watch dust
in the silence of your eyes.
Fearfully, counting your answers
and mutilating them into shameless art
as if it justifies anything.