A weary march pickaxe on shoulder
Only a picture the famous greys and browns

The showbiz extravaganza same effect
Amid the golds and the magentas
That’s me up there

The same tension two turnbuckles
Trapped in the tyranny of twos

Take from the dresser of deal
Take from fecund past
After all these eons still a field of limited choices

The prison of privilege
Decadence a carceral institution

Savor like a connoisseur
The possibility of annihilation
Second best after never having been

If that’s me in the picture
Then what am I doing here

It’s not true that it’s all spleen
But in here
A sumptuous meal through a slot in the door

Oh for an age so sheltered from personality
Oh for an implement to pry myself from my self

The supremely vulgar act
To complain of one’s own suffering
To exult in the stoical liturgy