then i don’t mind not remembering my
name, or what year it is,
or what new ******* styles are in…
i don’t mind mumbling, cross-eyed
with **** running down my leg
for the rest of my life…
i don’t mind a dilapidated hospice,

because it’s like you’re some angry
******* god who demanded more
than a ****** sacrifice.

so take this mass of jumbled ****,
make angels cry,
make the devil envious,
and make the specters of yourself get
ghost as i demand ice-picks through
the eyes that you lied and said
were beautiful,

because i don’t know what to
do any longer with the botched
******* you’ve left me here with.