All mocking lights and ‘done’ rent,
Smell of whorey old cunt
And the stunted hope of suburban glory,
Cold with the faulty air-conditioned
Life of loss…

Wins achieved at not nearly the sameness
Of sentimental youth,
Avalanche of golden sevens, hope,
Glory and also decay of same.

It’s fear too.
Of failure and of wonton fulfillment.
Of the ‘allness’ of being.

What if?
And the sun furnishes the eastern sky
In the insincere light,
Of another perfect dawn.

Yet know not,
There, neither a window
Into the soul,
Nor a soul worth seeing.

And I. Self same whose hopes,
Long since faded,
Make supplementary whorish income
From the butchered purses of the poor –
And sow’s silken ear.

“Da na na nar.”
                     – October 4th 1998

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