what-if-will-‘o-the-wisps keep flitting through,
and they meticulously craft these tiger trap images,
of you and me and imagined futures,
placed on top of a void, ravenous, yawning.
last I wrote this much life into a mannequin,
I was chanting forgotten nothings at granite altars.
Dead-drunk on whiskey and love-longing.
Whiskey’s still here,
and the lonely.
But the sky is cloudy,
and the altar’s all but dust.
and if you’re pickin’ bits of yourself from someone else,
it only means that you’ve exploded.
I’m tired, dead tired of pretend.
And I’m not wearing the wallow anymore,
and I laugh in the mornings because it could, it could get worse.
so much.
Burn Thoreau, burn Keroauc,
burn all the liars peddling their holier-than-thou schlock.
they ain’t but wannabes,
and I, I don’t want to be.
For once I’m home,
I ain’t givin’ that up.
And if you wondered, I got me plenty of sex-drive,
just no partners, and that ain’t lookin’ like it’ll change.
So fuck these what-if-will-‘o-the-wisps,
swat ’em like flies and let’s, that’s me and you, have dinner sometime.
I could write you whole volumes about my fantasies,
but fiction’s got no taste like yours.
