I feel your calculated issue of unfiltered blood
as it loses itself in details-
These are the words you wanted pulled from me,
so wallow in their thickness,
splash about in their incremental deaths,
take pleasure in their liquid martyrdom.
I will not offer them in this way again.
This is simple grist for the intellects' greasy mill-
Those who rape poets for second guesses
(and come back for sloppy thirds),
Those who heap nothing but coal and praises
on the heads of junkies and victims.
I could have been one of them, I could.
I could have waxed mysterioso about
the embarrassed pudenda of beauty
nothings, who stand and wonder
how the judges will taste,
and where mother will hide the crown.
This is what this art has reduced us to-
damaged words for a damaged world.
(There ain't much room for a beat
when you can't dance to it.)
What wings I earn will be mine to keep-
And I have minutes to go before I sleep,
And I have minutes to go before I sleep...
