He wears his falseness as if in fatigue
Like the new old décor of a bad Victorian theme pub
A nostalgia of bland notoriety, hideous, perhaps contagious
For it is indiscriminate and without compromise in its counterfeit
Lying in wait, eagerly in ambush, hidden by a thought
A thin antiquated distraction, a solitary mutilation of identity
Deflecting interest in amplified displacement into delirious disguise
Re-emerging in distraction, pestering, problematic,
Destabilizing directness in its ubiquitous imaginary lie
It is a realization that one is all too aware off
Yet despite this knowledge cannot help but conspire in its captivating complicity
I am fearful to look upon him directly,
For in so doing I may discover in his open masque
Improbable truths about myself, as foul as any slander