Bringing Volcanoes to the Hills

                            No one’s skin’s thicker than mine
that’s the ‘problem;’ these little shits
wasting my time, racing into me
and running off when they find
I don’t fuckingcare that they’ve
‘read all [my] work;’ I just wish
they’d take pages from it and
define their own worth—stop
trying to lea(r)n my posture and
be their own persons; living’s a curse.

                            Writing’s the devil when everyone
ignorships you like you’re dead, or someone
who’s ‘in trouble;’ I should be ‘banned’
if not ‘damned,’ ‘burned’ and ‘cursed’ if
at all possible—sworn-off by my addicts
those tigresses entranced by my
softest fuckoff. Enough of craft and
‘disservice,’ let’s talk cash: who knew
misery would make me—would carve
‘depravity’ into a monument that laughs?

                            A sitcom stash of suffering—
blood which leaves wash away
but a residue that lasts; rainforest
pores sweating residuals even royalty grabs
as crowds of illiterate onlookers lunge
at my ass, uncertain I’m ‘thatguy’ or just
‘injustice’ personified. If I keep speaking
of being f(r)eed, they’ll make sure I’ll crash;
caged then by buffoons, paraded about them
parroting their vacuous ‘values’ blankfaces fill in.

                            Bringing volcanoes to the hills
I’d be lying if I didn’t pay tribute to Byron
the least-Romantic Übermensch such fools
made of him, unaware even he hated them;
waxing Promethean, I’m flaming coals on
the tongue, acid in the ears; ‘Borden making
what ‘he wasn’t supposed to’ take:
my own life and all of its flakes, little ashes
I smudge into something novel—words layered
in watercolours to run from you like paint.