Gilded sun, black hole me
endless thoughts-endless weeds
the more these men burn
through my shaking sands of hand
the less it hurts to burn

Ripe old earth, what
what stories may you tell
what of pain, what of heaven
what of war, what of hell?
My story is being written
in every ****** road I walk
along a liar's web of arsenic
and milk white chalk.

There is one thing true to me
and that is being a fraud,
as waters bear witness
below to shadow of
a false god
-Me.

The only thing that helps
is to burn, burn in pleasure
when the hour suits,
be pleasing to strangers
to seem familiar, and
strange to be invincible.