Doppelgängbang Body Double

                         i.

W     ho will be there when
     my breath becomes air? The
worm at the core, in
the land of open graves,
I only like the sound
of my own voice when
I speak deep from the
bottom of my diaphragm, not
from my chest or my
head, to a stranger’s blank
face, mistaking the pace of
my pathos to indicate a
death wish when my aim
is to outlive all of
you in the first place,
missing the obvious gallows humour
seeking to glimpse a motive
below the irony I spew
just to show how much
you don’t even know about
life, mine or your own,
I mean, really, wouldn’t it
be easier for us both
if I just had a
double to handle this prattle

                         ii.

and saddle all the trouble
before it gets away from
me? Full-blown Bedlam-ridden clown not
about to go down like
that, gasping to be understood
by a town no relevance
would ever be caught dead
hanging around? Chasing permanence, I
imprison in short sentences I
commit to paper what visions
I execute in verse instead
of risking any real danger,
my fantasies are perversions written
for extirpated people, fodder for
fools to feed the metre
whose limits I neither transgress
nor recognize, since I’ll never
perceive speech as having any
real ceiling or border, it’s
all about healing by spilling
truth, whether or not truly
lived, it’s in writing it
down the doing it gives
way to being done without
proving anything, sable gloom revenued.