I have no reason to moan,
forgive me this.

A tight-jowled youth
of the twenty-first century,
tan-white skin of olive grove
and modest treasury;

I have no reason to moan,
forgive me this.

A heterozygotic individual
walking over the glass floor,
I watch women on computer screens
and I walk them to the door.

I sign off to the world at night,
laptop glow polluting the stars,
I fall asleep to a lullaby hum,
the mating calls of intersecting cars.

Eyes roll at the demands
of twenty-first century life,
I curse the death of all poetry
in the elimination of strife.

Oh, I have no reason to moan,
please forgive me this.

Information genies commentate the world.
Screens deliver me lands fractured
in drought, oh, disconnected reality
and always living in doubt.

I weep at the sights of sadness
and I purge all longing onto paper,
I watch as the sky returns my tears,
polluted air and puncturing skyscraper.

In modern joy, I curse all comfort.
Through art I pretend to praise,
I pretend to feel real emotion
beyond my usual haze.

But still, I have no reason to moan,
forgive me this.

Old Leonard sings his ******* poetry
in clumsy awe and wonder,
he sings to me as I count collected tips
and he always pulls me under.

My greatest ailments require cocoa butter
and my greatest rival is myself,
my rival is my best friend too
but he doesn't take care of his health.

But the curtains will close in the night-time
and they'll open again come morn,
and in my comfortable surrender,
I plead only for innocence reborn.

With that I know, there's no reason to moan,
you'll have to forgive me this.

So for love undiluted and pure,
I will call out my miserable answer,
I will walk these streets,
grow old in the face
and fall in love with a dancer.

I will dream of forgiveness
and of yesterday's returns,
I will dream of stirring the flame
that rather gifts heat, than burns.

And in the process of waking dream
and suicidal kiss,
I ask only that you understand
and that you forgive me this.