Shotgun wedding at twice the price,
a new escape for self-parenthesis,
coughing up seductions fit only
for a faux king of tragedy.
My brother cracks a laugh
and comments on my leukemia,
casually, just loud enough
to be completely inaudible.
Sirens shame my throat,
and I have felt the rumors constantly,
inconsistent enough to bruise her,
not quite good enough to lose her.
I am made of meat and bone and other
disposable product, blatant muscle failure
where the heart begins to skip beats,
useless metal and wires engaged around
my soul/tasteless argument two, I save
you spines for your personal collection.
I am forever gracious, Sir Disturbance,
and I offer you confessional pig latin,
buried in the mouth of convention.
So sorry to meet you again.
Flattery will give you directions
and get you lost, somewhere beyond
the planet of Arrogance.
I pity the fools who offended Kung.
Just apologize and be on your way.
You can't catch a fish with Beethoven,
but ask yourself this:
If God had a pager,
would you have the number?
Something has got to give,
and I am almost positive of two things:
1. We're all guilty of something.
2. These are not the droids you're looking for.
Fuck you, Cleopatra,
your movie was far too long.
