14
Back to my depression, ginger in a sling
trying to be ok with the limited
knowledge that I am recovering,
not feeling so great, wishing he was dead,
sucking up to China, flexing in bed.
downside of a modicum of mania,
think i’ll go back to the life i dread—
life in godforsaken America,
minus the protest at the break of dawn.
can’t conjure a thing but volumes of hate,
making me sick when it’s likely to spawn,
making ruin of the life i debate,
trying to create something from nothing
standing stone cold sober at His gate,
lamenting the life of a spectral king,
running, however, a little too late
spouting out the method that brings me here
a lowdown point that hasn’t been made clear.
can’t believe the things that, in agony,
i might do if given His loving for free—
minus this game of fucking monopoly
living by and by, trying to conjure
the excitement that isn’t there, really,
torturing myself for being impure,
doing anything to recover his desire,
Considering, then, what’s most important,
don’t need all this guilt born out of fire
degrading my love into a shitty cunt
romanticizing what is not funny
suffering from the annals of His time,
living in heaven, do tell, without me
recover, then, while making up rhyme
I’m not going to engage this hate any
more—i’d rather suppress this identity
but who am i kidding? I am that I am,
smoking a toke and snorting their gram
trying, right? to fucking fit in? well i
don’t like all this venom and vitriol,
think, before I get home, I’m going to die,
making me sad—no loving to console,
exactly like I’m twice bitten and shy
don’t want to go there—I cannot say why
exploiting myself to make a loony
book—something, dear, that I must set free
driving Him, as I do, to insanity—
blindness from fucking what I impose,
allowing his hatred to cripple me,
standing, like a fool, on my tippy-toes
trying to kiss what’s light years past
trying to grasp the ins and out of this . . .
thinking, for example, that this will not last,
plugging away—can’t manage a kiss
remind me why you hate me so much
don’t even know what I mean anymore—
watching him screw my woman and such
feeling, even then, that this is a bore,
playing loose with softspoken commandments
going for gold—so i cut my losses,
this is the apartment that my loving rents,
the place i live—I don’t care what he says
coming straight out of my soapsuds mouth
well this entire album is going south,
put my foot to the accelerator -
suffering through a meaningless erection
getting up, then, to take a fucking piss
pushing my love away—get some of this,
it’s too late, however, to turn this around,
no point in loving what’s going to ground
lose a little weight for my idiot country,
caring so little for people just like me,
making everything—breaking a sweat:
I refuse to accept the scraps I get . . .