All this filth, all this murk
it's all coming from me - no one else to blame,
I believed in the woods once, could see the light
through the trees, but now it is all murk in the mottled forest;

The act is an act, the mask to hide
from the world, my hollow shell, a cocoon;
this convenient hideaway, measured tone, repressed
thought, whirlwinds of desire.

So you just run onward through the bones in the yard,
saying hi to the pristine porceline girls of *****
on the way, spinning and grinning
with jawed grimace, their faces sown
in poetic indifference,
and you want to remember

That, once you were something
pure.

till you were about ten years old -
sighing, carry on, knowing that your scars
are your best friends, mutter with them,
freeze the pain, don't drown it out, Believe,
because the greatest lie is that  man is pure,
and life is not that long that you can ignore those smiles
that are ok with that, and laugh about it along with you, in words , stories, and poetry.