i.

Your culture of blaming everyone
else for your own faults, so quick to diagnose those
of others while medicating your Selves,
perhaps the problem is not having not enough,

but having too much, time on your hands, the
myth into which you have been tricked to believe a
lie, having bought your place in the ceaseless
race toward an end which will never come, more a

mess than Messianic then some, we all
have the same amount of eternity and none
is slipping by, not without first pouring
forth lines of age as finishing touches on the

                    ii.

canvases of your faces, yes, nature
really is a disaster artist, and shameless,
painting with hours that last days, tears that take
millennia to dry and waste fast away the

sculpted features of kings as if they were
evaporating mountains, the erosion of
your morals has only you to blame, your
cracking wide open is no accident, not when

so much obsolescence is built right in,
immutable, unlike the adolescence you
should have thrown off long ago, your utter
lack of effort at maturing arresting your

                    iii.

development ever since they banged, your
parents’ accident occurred by which you were born,
enlightenment will not grow on you like
mould, no matter how long you hold that pose, enough

chrome plating that hypocrisy of yours
to turn the shit of my soul into some hardcore
alchemical gold, something transcendent
about a tale, no matter how many times told,

the moral of its fable will never
get old, as if wisdom’s youth were eternal and
yours not at all worth the trouble, funny
how words travel farther and last longer than fools.