i. Cha–

     I was peerless like the shit no one gave,
becoming a Catholic wasn’t cathartic
or brazen, but brave, surrounded as I still am,
     now as then, by heretics, and being
a poet didn’t make me wanted or replace
my dead father, as an author, writing about
     the world never made it invite me in
to belong, or let my words flourish with what it
offered, throwing me out before I could go on,
     but to do so would mean having to flaunt
a purpose to live for, to take on courage like
armour, but no one’s brave anymore, not unless
     or until somebody else is watching,
my heart no more a muscle than a miracle
of modern marketing, a piece of hell heated,
     too cool to pull out, but it’s possible
to pull off with the right lighting, a tool used for
something few express, hearts of blood and flesh so few
     possess, but when the truth is so useless,
persona’s just an excuse we purchase, and each
personality’s a feat of lying we call
     loving, but what else could all of this be
for when life’s machine is so fundamentally
unlovable? When souls die like batteries and
     even tears rust out these tired arteries?

                                        ii. –ching!

     I’m the fatalist flaw in my great work,
and oh, how I wish this masterpiece would go and
find itself a thief, if only just to give my
     head some relief, my mind’s been blown in that
JFK-in-Dallas kind of way and it hurts
having to overlay evidence of my heart’s
     origin with words I’ve chosen to drive
over the pain my past motorcades in moments
I want it to fall off the radar, to be all
     over with, washing my hands of its scent,
odes to my future drenched deep in eau de putrid,
rotting flesh roughly analogous with what I’ve
     come to expect of them, fellow members
of my species, specimens of “people,” so-called,
the public I can’t take, human faces faker
     than the worlds I create, my verse what you
need when you seek some but find no refuge from what
they say, those unsolicited opinions their
     forte, it’s an art, avoiding a crowd
so unaware I’m their society’s loudest
opponent, that not giving a fuck is what makes
     offending them worth my daring, conquests
and trysts not only worth sharing, but preserving
and immortalizing in these works of mine they
     popularize, buying them to burn them.