Prologue:

Don't let me grow up in a hurry.
Teardrop-marked fluster and confusion
and fear.
Fear that I won't be your son
anymore.
Fear that I don't have an option to run
anymore.
-
And so i must study and listen,
for four more years.
-
I'm still your son,
and I can assure you that,
and also the fact
that I have big dreams,
bogged down by that.
-
I don't want to be a son,
but I don't want to lose your love.
I don't want to be her love,
but I don't want to lose it-
For neither of you would handle the pain of my desires.

                                                    Epilogue:

Dreams of conquest and masochism seem quite paradoxical,
but also quite defining of my yearning.
To conquest my homeland,
like my ancestor's did my "homeland".
Ghosts of conquistadors,
who slaughtered to pave the way,
for the track marks
that I so oddly desire to tarnish my arms.
-
I never wanted tattoos,
but a sun and moon,
and a raging bulls head bound by stars
seem to be quite fitting
representations of myself at this moment.
-
I'm killing myself for my own desires,
and its a slow death
one that I hope will outlive you,
so your heart remains unbroken, and
protected by lies and denial.

can i buy your love?
will you follow me, unconditionally
and pretend it's for me?

and not my supply.

Three white lines-

Not ******* anymore-

Just the adidas tracksuit

on the street corner, in St. Petersburg.

Or perhaps-

in the abstract works of Miro en la Reina Sofia...*

What wild fantasies I have.

Will they ever be realized?

Part One: (The Part With No Rhyme)

Do you remember
when I was to be expelled?
A life ruined (or so I thought)
because of my facade of stupidity,
of delinquency.

And do you remember,
after the weekly screaming and biting?
Which met with more biting, and more screaming,
and crying
And how my only solace for discomfort and failure,
were the stolen pills-

the ones with the moon imprint-


that made the heaviness of the impending crash,



weightless.



Part 2: (The Part With Rhyme)

Westbound, California bound.
Turned around, though-
to their little-big town.
Unkept and festering, with rats
Not quiet, nor sound.

Oh, how I hate this town,
and how, everything must be either white or brown-
and how, the only thing in common-
metals and jewels, robbed from their crowns.

How depressing...
My desires -
all for nought, but
still only for servile,
personal pleasure.
I surely acknowledge how
green depictions of
dead men are tools of my greed.
Greed of wanting more,
but in turn causes loss.

And how stupid...
To be aware of my own lacking generosity,
and yet I'm still parked, still
in my expensive clothes,
in my expensive car,
too afraid, to fill its empty tank-

to fill its emptiness.