I’m a sad poet, talking smack, existential, bent off
liquor—a hankering for unique women, absent from self, asking quantity and
question; voices for sale, ventriloquist in darkness, an orgasm and quick into
nightfall. Couldn’t believe in it, couldn’t claim it, what in hell is “IT?”
Love was peeved, agitated, speaking consequence and taller tales … seeing
another aches in places, the rhythm of texture, as it falls, it never meant
much, while one believed it meant existence: mothers craving, children needing,
granny apologetic for sin: bass dropping, guts torn, intestines facing
paralysis; a bad person, claiming saint, every damn thing has an excuse. Over
millions seeking love, trying to become, and pride says—it was hell getting
you, and I could’ve done better.
