Making It

                    To the Devil at Dawn

     No, I don’t expect your applause—
I never look out, only in;
never succumb to consensus
or self-censorship, temptation
I’d rather welcome than your fuss,
going down as I am kicking
          in history’s teeth on what love my head
          equates to sin’s redemption, making it.

     A barbarian’s invasion,
this condition—this cancerous
kiss a pox of lips perverts when
laying on gyrating hips its
unforgiving curse of living—
creeping in, making me say shit,
          (w)horrible things I never regret; words
          dressed up like whores, roses I writ(h)e with thorns.

     Then come the fists, fingers thick with
accusation, flesh swollen from
splinters of mirrors no limits
or boundaries, inhibitions,
or reservations make them hit—
what I show them too much; sudden
          revelation for such men what begs life’s
          meaning stay hidden, making do with lies.

     This is a song for them, a theme—
an anthem anathematized
ears should let in—enlightened things
lascivious lyrics from wide
mouths sing of, striking like lightning
those souls whose silent fears close minds;
          self-doubt their tightening noose, diamonds
          taking by the throat what should be welcomed.

     This is the antidote, a rope
thrown out, rubbing raw a poem
of flame no heart can burn without—
this bold assertion that comes from
having swallowed fame’s undertow;
knowing hell’s hot load, how it foams,
          its wet, sweating wealth no critics can touch
          or their cold mouths hold, this chorus thrown up.

     Freedom is not giving a fuck,
turning off what’s offered as truth;
tuning in, instead, to the smut
thrusting within and not the news—
realizing that when I trust
my own thoughts, my own nuts and choose
          not to be screwed, I win and better work
          those corrupt tools who rule/ruin the world.