Twelve guitars.

Twelve guitars that failed to teach me enlightenment,

milk-crate furniture that failed to make me cool or edgy

(but nonetheless has been very practical so far) -

all this encircles my reflection,

in that serene suspended moment, when

laughter sounds in another's rooms

(whose closed doors have erections at crotch-level).

In their hemispheres of shit, they seek love,

or pass the time pretending to.

I live out a lie: repositioning my posture in pathetic mimicry,

while I attend to the grace of falling.

In the uneasiness of alone, I ride the large storm,

electrifying myself with a science of scienceless aesthetic!

This, I have elevated to the status of a god-concept, sacrosanct.

But neither it nor l can be fulfilled,

or have not yet figured out how, or why.

A number of books I have not yet read

point at me and laugh from up high,

painting the portrait of my failures coming closer.

I take it all in my stride, and make a decision to decide to defeat them.

Have them inside, a deicide, as I eat them.

Wars.

Shin stabbing, rip apart

the pieces of the flesh. 

A rough-headed roustabout 

who's sure to leave a mess. 

What you could do wasn't good enough,

you left it half-finished, now it's ended. 

Broken in two like a cigarette, alone 

with the torment you have tendered .

I mistook pity for love -

love for myself, not another.

Washing skin with trickling blood,

I stopped accepting the other.

Welding on the steel to the bone,

the strap came down and made me quite stroppy.

Answering, these ten questions of hurt

the voice that responds to me seems kind of curt

and all of this mired in your filth and your dirt...

 I couldn't walk for a year or two... I couldn't see...