Moesha
Your crude art is my way out.
But then, depression sets in.
And this depression distinguishes itself from sadness
Through its intensity and duration.
Abounding feelings of loss and disappointment
Further instill the notion that all life is futile.
And because you’re young I cannot complete you, for I am
The critical result of years of sex and sin, destined to be
A crop coerced into birthing his own insecticide.
And some nights I watch you vanish into masses.
And maybe it’s not half bad
Deleting that primordial flash.
In the darks in between, my accessories climb onto the brink.
And sometimes they vanish, and sometimes they reappear.
And some nights I vanish, and hot damn I’m skidding
An asteroid trail of sirloins slurred with chins.
May God bless such play.
May my God bless your filler
Mourning the first sensations to gloat.
Whatever you’re healing is still desperately hurt.
It’s never easy to wake a tubesock tasting of each sorrow.
Whatever sleeps under me has no antibiotics.
And I will leave here when the money runs low.
I will leave you either stoked or skinned.
My eyes they open your mouth an opening, I am hidden
By ways out.
I climb the brink and address this nudity.
Unaltered, as shame might say, engaging a wall
At peace with the law.
Now the money is done spent, and our booth sits reasonably
Enough to hold high these insults of episodic rape.
An owl’s stain steals my affection for the sky.
I repeat, you die.
