And so much less of shame in me remains
By how much of me their reproach contains.
          —Shakespeare¹

                    i.

Empty all your fountains into my well,
ink will tell what fantasies my hand no
longer trembles to express, no matter
how uncomfortable my comfort with

my Self makes you feel. Over getting it
worrying, without first asking your shell’s
permission to break with tradition and
experience to the fullest what filth

goes against your expectations, troubles
your thoughts of me, challenges perceptions,
rubs the wrong way its walls until they all
crack, shattering as I am now with words

your inhibitions’ crystal vision full
of perfection I wreck with my laughter.

                    ii.

Speaking of balls, bold this groundswell’s ripple
as this mouth unfolds its tongue to taste of
another dude’s hole it will fill after
I lay waste to all you hold dear, faggot

Narcissist poet whose daddy complex
fills pages with more conquests than would sell
assassins on accepting the challenge
of attacking as many monoliths

hung with forbidden apples as I tell
in my gospel of having swallowed down.
Seeds of wisdom implanted on hotel
minds whose dim halls my memory saunters,

scrawling on walls a name written for real,
for once unashamed of what I author.

__________
¹William Shakespeare, “A Lover’s Complaint”, [Stanza 27, Lines 188–189], in “Sonnets and ‘A Lover’s Complaint’” of “The Complete Works” in William Shakespeare: The Complete Works: Compact Edition: General Editors Stanley Wells and Gary Taylor, published at Oxford by Clarendon Press in 1989; page 772.