Fickle

If only this ungrateful world  
knew the full scale of my
fickle devotion,
they could have it all -
in four year cycles.
Like presidencies, my marriages and
job rotations,
it comes to shit
 
Still struggling for something new to say;
maybe it's all been said.
And while I think on it further
I spatter my existence
over time  
just as the scatter gun painting
I saw once, by a gay Brazilian
attracting too many blind compliments
 
Loose in every way,
I choose my friends with more care
than I pick lovers -
only ripening in the blood of madness
and company of alcohol.
Fuck the poets and musicians,
fuck all of them -
trying to steal my thunder.