Profligate and prolific,

in saunters your reputation, never late
since your ego arrives an hour before you

                    do, making more excuses
                    than money, spreading epics

          the way whores contribute to epidemics,

                    necromanticism your gift
                    syphilisation wishes

you’d have kept secret, propheting from your wounds
leaking sour moods your crude indiscretion left

                    underwrapped, society
                    would be grateful if, in your

          heated fulminations, you’d forego being

                    so hateful and tell, instead,
                    of how everything you

spill is what filth someone says only if they
begin to believe the lies about themselves

                    they weave, when bare truth would be
                    better, but is unfiltered

          truth something you can capture when, by your own

                    myth’s noose, you’ve been caught, by your
                    aloofness with its tragic

ritual’s elusive historiola
enraptured, a little tale dining on your

                    mind like an Ouroboros
                    from inside of which your li(f)e’s

          eggshell cracks, under its pressure, when will you,

                    if ever, answer those who
                    question your motives? Can you

remember being transformative before
you were “transgressive”? Or shed your scales instead

                    of hiding behind metrics?