Closing the Doors of Twilight

                    i. Earth

                         Your weakest efforts at raising my spirits
                    have got me really Ouija-bored, afflicted
               by Venus, ’feels like Scorpio’s eating us
          ’cause you thieved a glance and all I wanted was
     a piece of tail, seeking heat like a missile-
riding fiend to seed your anything-but-pale
     ass, praising the load you passed up, shit-out-of-
          luck as I blaspheme and my fingers blast thick
               missals I read only because I keep my
                    uncut lines bagged-and-tagged, like shards of life on
                         splintered ice, buried deep between the needless

                    ii. Air

cheekiness of those things’ whitest lies, as if
     I give a fuck, witty on the inside since
          it sure-as-hell beats being filled with someone
               else’s emptiness, those venomous trances
                    lancing from imminent love its lecherous
                         boil, set to bail, I can’t shake this feeling ill,
                    plague-stricken, wondering what-the-hell, what if
               being just-friends is what’ll heal this cold hell
          of being too-numb-to-feel? So, I sing of
     the thing that brings an end to all things that had
a beginning, stabbing you in-the-front like

                    iii. Fire

                         Wilder beasts once said to do, it’s not how deep
                    the knife pierces or how big a piece of shit
               a poet so often is, but how its sting
          leaves us, two lonely creatures separated
     from the same embrace, lost in shame’s wilderness,
Enkidu left asking how Gilgamesh could
     do it, smash their shared myth’s most cryptic tablets?
          Closing firm the burned doors of savage twilight
               without a whimper, slamming them shut not with
                    a twist of a limp-wrist but a Führious
                         fist’s hit of a sledgehammer, crashing too-late

                    iv. Water

mourning’s waking stance, teary eyes opened wide
     to a pipe-dream’s lie lost without a fighting
          chance, and I don’t even know if I can, or
               even if I’ve got enough room for proper
                    attribution, to credit the elusive
                         collection to which my soul’s indebted, for
                    its most lucrative acquisition of his
               freest agent’s worst creation, this painting’s
          mediocre canvas wet with the warm piss
     of a cursed existence, Lucifer’s steadfast
position that he’s no saint but a patron,

                    v. Æther

                         a champion of the world’s poorest people,
                    a bankruptcy of morals what’s torturing
               glamour’s immortals and proprietary
          notices warning against the piracy
     of his rights is all they need now—legal threats
to confound the inept masses with yet more
     unwarranted confusion, fuck man, that’s how
          labels kill, he’ll suck your dick until you call
               him up for air so you can call him out on
                    it, calling him what everyone else but
                         he himself will—pure evil choking on guilt.