I like you as an excuse, posing as the
Martyr I once thought I could be.
You're so much better than I am at this.

My instincts keep me tethered by hair.
Like lice there will be something waiting.
Man, you win.

I will suffer this fascism alone.
It sleeps cradled around me
As a crime scene.

Tracing the lines of this Yakuza beauty,
I stay up late imagining the
Artwork on my skin.
When I sleep it is always techni-colored.