The Moral Pornographer

i. Expose

                    Stumbling over someone’s heart,
Sadean women running
this gamut turn it into
a game, strutting from love’s end
to its theoretical
start, barefoot and troubling as
they humble a scribe’s pen, names
dropping from tongues forked by their
forests of foraged feasts each
                    beast leaves as they dart, their needs

                    at once hypocritical
and hypothetical, fanged
predators prettier than
inferior theories
painted-up to look smart, we
are the symptoms when nothing’s
what you’ve got, when it’s what you’ve
been taught to be, convicts in
stage clothes convinced that this door
                    won’t ever close, or that its

                    iron curtain won’t ever
fall, blind ambition revered
as though it were a moral
conviction with and for which
one must live, since all you can
do is agree with them, those
metaphysicians making
a hell of a killing for
grilling us filth, and it myth’s
                    other willing victims, in

                    a kitchen better equipped
and suited to cook-up meth,
than to rescue from themselves
worthless lives denying their
own existence, when, in such
moments as this, you forget
who it is that decided
loneliness is even an
option—never give-in to
                    these negative thought-patterns,

                    marketed to you as though
they were gifts from a world that
simply doesn’t give a shit,
making you believe that you’ll
never win, and won’t ever
question it, because, kid, we
did and still do, whenever
we pour out our hearts
only to be told, ‘Is that
                    all you have to offer us‽’

ii. Say

                    I’m not everything you
want, I’m not even what you
need, but trust me, babe: never
believe or buy into those
lies the others will try to
tell you about your Self, just
pay them no mind, never waste
your time paying hate in-kind,
always, instead, provide them
                    some space to say to your face

                    what things they’ll deny ever
having even said at all,
that you’re so out-of-place, will
never belong, and that such
pieces-of-shit are better-
off-dead, anyway—then, when
you finally realize
you’re not alone, put its pain
into words, then lay their hurt
                    down as a song, tracks no one

                    can follow except those whose
own bruises mark your same wounds,
we elected few who know
the same tune, having each been
rejected by idiots
unqualified to do so,
in fact, don’t ever avert
your perceptive eyes from art,
but ensure that their rarest
                    sapphire survives the furnace

                    of this life’s impermanence
and your vision thrives, burning
from within what only your
experience can describe,
shaming those talent passed by,
since it skips generations
too blind to notice its light
penetrating lazy eyes,
trust in knowing you’ll always
                    be in the sight of one whose

                    all-seeing height rivals their
bloat’s inflated sense of self-
importance, pyramids built
by those who, like flies, delight
in piling up bullshit, since,
like pillaged tombs, they’re empty
on the inside, villagers
pride torches before devils
arrive to pitchfork their hides,
                    making meals of swine Hell binds.