Personæ Ungrateful

                              Nemesis Fame with his son Luck
dressed as Sacred and Profane Love,
costumed themselves one electric
                              night so provocatively in
               neon-bright, skin-tight mysteries—
               as often is the case, being
                              the custom of omens—using
illusion as clothing just to
fuck with us, showing men how true
                              immortality ignites one,

                                             a mockery of affection
               gavotting sultrily into
               my chaste poverty as if to
                                             pay almage, stalking the room like
                              painted-up shadows following
                              a debt, cheapening what my soul
                                             wanted, offering gold dust I
               accepted with no regret as
               I lied and begged them again for
                                             more time to repay them, pleading

                              that my celebrity had not
yet greeted its zenith, and my
life’s stylist was yet preparing
                              for the live streaming of my art’s
               martyrdom, gearing up for its
               nadir, the coming down what makes
                              genius so Faustian, giving
into us our exemption from
modesty, that is until we
                              crash before cashing in and our

                                             only hope of resurrection
               is through negotiating some
               syndication, but weathering
                                             enough bad seasons—and reaching
                              a hundred stale episodes worth
                              re-airing—is like reaching for
                                             heaven while still living, flying
               too high like poor Napoléon
               plotting ruling the world from Saint
                                             Helena—holding onto this

                              impossible, unless we dress
up and not let our masks trouble
us, just let our tribes find us and
                              we will know love then, even when
               its what-ifs leave us with a mess
               to deal with, dealing in heartbreak
                              what distinguishes an artist
from his audience and critics,
making out of loss existence,
                              of beatings-per-minute music.