I was supposed to write.
But now that I’ve started I don’t know what I wanted to talk about.
They tell me to tell what I know, to show what I had already talked about before,
But that is a spout which is totally spent out.
I see that a rhyme has spouted, unintentionally,
Interrupting my sullen angry glory,
I had been forewarned, but still ignored,
And for that and much more, I am truly sorry.
In my sight there are a few bottles,
Empty yet cynical, just as I wish to be.
There hollow derision has been swallowed,
Every path they could lead me down, has been followed.
Some clothes remain, and a couple plastic packets of food,
And other such necessary human requirements, all of which are crude,
Rude and maybe even a bit too lewd,
Is this context enough to justify my mood?
Maybe it is the lack in which what I possess is magnified,
But then the mystery is far too easy,
The answer both cheesy and sleazy,
Yet at least the passion is certified.
Your body, your form, your mind,
I try to ape them, the best I can,
I even go so far as to push my chest together, but then I laugh at the image I must make,
This ironic humour is too much for me to take.
I have been expressing before I had anything much too showcase,
And now, finally, that an identity has started to surface,
I realize that it was the lack where I excelled,
But now it’s too late to break once again and re-meld.
Or so I feel, as before you I kneel,
And you whisper all the wisdom I could ever need,
But your eyes are far too distracting, and I find myself still lacking,
In fulfilling your infernal greed.
When they drag me down to that heaven,
This is one defect I will debate aloud,
And if God is busy, and the angels ignore me,
I’ll begin to shout.
The truth which wisps away from my grasp,
The more I rush behind,
And now I’m stuck in a loop, unfold which I cannot,
Call your Alexander, this is surely a Gordion knot.
I even find myself agreeing with Narcissus these days,
Maybe no one else gazed at him as lovingly as his own image,
As I desperately rack my own brains full of rage,
Trying to fill the gaps, both within me and on the page.
Narcotics could help, they seem to be linked,
Both through the layout of language and in terms of effect,
I fall in love with other and hate myself more and more,
But even this sensation I must perfect.
For what I am but the lack of you?
As someday I see a flower and forget everything,
That I had once called my own,
I lay there in the grass and begin to caress,
To all others, I am simply forlorn.
And now, I forgot myself again.
In the memory of what I imagine is you.
And even if the rendition is corrupted beyond belief,
To me at least, it seems true.
I am nothing and still everything.
My rhyme is stolen and so is my tongue,
When they discover my crime I shall be hung,
But maybe, hopefully, my song shall still be sung.
Until then I have nought to do,
But reach for the final climax alone,
My hands tremble as they mirror your grace,
In the deepest recess of my head lie the contours of your face.
Spent, gratified, my expression is complete.
For tonight my life is surfeit.
But when morn comes, and dries my cum,
And regret and disgust replace love and lust,
I will forget the sacred knowledge I was to entrust,
My tool, both of ink and blood will surely rust,
As everything filled with entropy must,
Will I still want to imagine the lines of your bust?
While my earthly and egoistic remains crumble into dust…
The truth is incomplete without the lie.
I know, for they showed it to me so.
Expecting that this one half would surely represent the whole,
‘There was no way this well thought plan could have gone down the hole!’
I wandered as any other wonderer would have,
But here the universe played one of her famous tricks,
And deprived me of your loving licks,
Kept me desolate and desperate, dancing with the roaches and the ticks,
While she laughed till she was blue, mirthful and mercilessly,
As I cried with emotion, waiting for an angel to bless me.
The angel never came, but I surely do.
And sleep now beckons me, with her death like charm.
I, who has submitted already, offer no struggle,
For sleep is just another temptress, of whom I have known the best, how could she bring me any more harm?
But now that I’ve started I don’t know what I wanted to talk about.
They tell me to tell what I know, to show what I had already talked about before,
But that is a spout which is totally spent out.
I see that a rhyme has spouted, unintentionally,
Interrupting my sullen angry glory,
I had been forewarned, but still ignored,
And for that and much more, I am truly sorry.
In my sight there are a few bottles,
Empty yet cynical, just as I wish to be.
There hollow derision has been swallowed,
Every path they could lead me down, has been followed.
Some clothes remain, and a couple plastic packets of food,
And other such necessary human requirements, all of which are crude,
Rude and maybe even a bit too lewd,
Is this context enough to justify my mood?
Maybe it is the lack in which what I possess is magnified,
But then the mystery is far too easy,
The answer both cheesy and sleazy,
Yet at least the passion is certified.
Your body, your form, your mind,
I try to ape them, the best I can,
I even go so far as to push my chest together, but then I laugh at the image I must make,
This ironic humour is too much for me to take.
I have been expressing before I had anything much too showcase,
And now, finally, that an identity has started to surface,
I realize that it was the lack where I excelled,
But now it’s too late to break once again and re-meld.
Or so I feel, as before you I kneel,
And you whisper all the wisdom I could ever need,
But your eyes are far too distracting, and I find myself still lacking,
In fulfilling your infernal greed.
When they drag me down to that heaven,
This is one defect I will debate aloud,
And if God is busy, and the angels ignore me,
I’ll begin to shout.
The truth which wisps away from my grasp,
The more I rush behind,
And now I’m stuck in a loop, unfold which I cannot,
Call your Alexander, this is surely a Gordion knot.
I even find myself agreeing with Narcissus these days,
Maybe no one else gazed at him as lovingly as his own image,
As I desperately rack my own brains full of rage,
Trying to fill the gaps, both within me and on the page.
Narcotics could help, they seem to be linked,
Both through the layout of language and in terms of effect,
I fall in love with other and hate myself more and more,
But even this sensation I must perfect.
For what I am but the lack of you?
As someday I see a flower and forget everything,
That I had once called my own,
I lay there in the grass and begin to caress,
To all others, I am simply forlorn.
And now, I forgot myself again.
In the memory of what I imagine is you.
And even if the rendition is corrupted beyond belief,
To me at least, it seems true.
I am nothing and still everything.
My rhyme is stolen and so is my tongue,
When they discover my crime I shall be hung,
But maybe, hopefully, my song shall still be sung.
Until then I have nought to do,
But reach for the final climax alone,
My hands tremble as they mirror your grace,
In the deepest recess of my head lie the contours of your face.
Spent, gratified, my expression is complete.
For tonight my life is surfeit.
But when morn comes, and dries my cum,
And regret and disgust replace love and lust,
I will forget the sacred knowledge I was to entrust,
My tool, both of ink and blood will surely rust,
As everything filled with entropy must,
Will I still want to imagine the lines of your bust?
While my earthly and egoistic remains crumble into dust…
The truth is incomplete without the lie.
I know, for they showed it to me so.
Expecting that this one half would surely represent the whole,
‘There was no way this well thought plan could have gone down the hole!’
I wandered as any other wonderer would have,
But here the universe played one of her famous tricks,
And deprived me of your loving licks,
Kept me desolate and desperate, dancing with the roaches and the ticks,
While she laughed till she was blue, mirthful and mercilessly,
As I cried with emotion, waiting for an angel to bless me.
The angel never came, but I surely do.
And sleep now beckons me, with her death like charm.
I, who has submitted already, offer no struggle,
For sleep is just another temptress, of whom I have known the best, how could she bring me any more harm?