This is a meditation
on my bookshelf:
bloated, dusty, a monolith
of leathery pulp, dashed
in forgotten howls, dashed
in mimicked yearning,
crumbling, armoring me
in brave thoughts that amount to
nothing: a gift to
ironic hipsters.
This is a meditation
on wasted time; on
sleepless nights with less
dreams; on cum-stained sheets
and what it means, to
love, to know; this is a
monologue - because I spoke
to the mocking, starless night -
the wails of my generation answered -
affirming empathy's discretion.
This is a meditation
and this is written in the dark
on lined lined lined papers; a meditation
on the thousands of harlequin faces,
blaring, beckoning as one
from the godless tube that
reaches from the granite walls;
on catatonic incarnation;
on a hiatus from masturbation
and what it means, to love, to know.
This is a meditation
on another layer
of my papier-mache shield;
on drifting catharsis through hazy
streets that all look the same
and lead to the same;
on the day Death strips me
bare, exposing only
what I love and know: nothing
but you.
