'old clothes do not make a tortured artist'

Charity shop chic,
Overact, express depression,
Second hand Panama hat - type
Worn by Nazi hunters in South America documentaries.

Are you really wearing a feather boa as a cravat?
Tattoo bruises on your flesh with a fountain pen?

Placed invented skeletons
In an internet cupboard;
When your talent becomes apparent
Uproot coarse bones & tell us
“Your forefathers died for their crimes.”

The inane rhymes you anthologise,
Apologise for the silver spoon
Trembling in your mouth.

Take another line and tell Charlie
You will go native for some time.
From Brighton council houses
- White Cliffs of Dover gleam & glisten -
You can taste the piss of Duchamp’s urinals.
Sea breeze blows a tiny coup d'état
Thru an(n)als of your smallest mind.

Maybe they sell inspiration on eBay,
Twitter torrents of torment,
Carry true love on the last train to personal bedlam?
Peace with oneself is not always in pieces>
Medals in museums are not all from wars.

When you deaf to the very
Voices you wish to portray,
Hear only this:
“Ere thrice madness has done to the page,
Chop off your fucking ear and bleed.”
It’s all the rage
In the Vincent way.
This world isn’t meant for someone as plastic as you.

Another stifled Friday night,
Come-to-bed eyes seed
Monochrome sun flowers,
Until you are, finally, blind
To the girl of your dreams,
Who is sad and all alone.