Lack of a shared romance
Shirked by not mistresses
A few friends startle me with their…
I do hate this place
Aching like a breaking
Nauseous from all of the endings
Understating melancholiacs, or fascinations
Everything is vapid and torpid
Something is not always better than
Trying not to cry in the library
Listening to Frank Ocean Singles
I cease to give a fuck about anything
Somewhat failing a Master’s program in mathematics,
Utterly incurious about the nature of didactics
All there is to do is live and breathe tobacco.
Laying in bed–sometimes crying–for weeks,
All I long to do is sing in dance in the streets.
Apparently though, anti-productivity is not the capitalist ideal.
Fucking Adam Smith
in the ass with a strap on
That she will never use on me
My alternative universe dream wife whom I call Margaret
though disparaging and exacting
Knows more about the preservation of Life on Earth
Than most any economist to ever exist.
If you don’t believe me, just look up the U.S. debt clock
Truth is, I am a twenty three year old male
With pale skin and a disposition for both elegance and madness
Madame Margaret merely promotes the dream economy
for the sublime is a history, a future, and a totality
Of the innocent infinitude of carousels and spirituality.
Shine on You Crazy Diamond
Somewhere in the land of rotting Granny Smiths
There was a sagacious man, my great grandfather.
Mayor of an island in Croatia, migrated to America.
At least he lived in the Northeast where they don’t starve
the poor and the blacks and the immigrants and the criminals.
But here I am in Alabama–too far away from my family,
friends, snow, and mountains–depressed and America.
And, you know what…