Why Me lord?
Why Me knowing the name of the king as he creeps and crawls through sacrificial alters and whispers in the ears of blood-mad dago fiends and bankers and wankers and pot heads and people wearing American baseball caps indoors cos’ they think they’re Bieber but a more hardcore version of Bieber, y’know.
Why Me lord, Me knowin’ the inevitable blackness that birthed you and loathin’ the thought of it all.
Why Me lord, knowin’ the slave-whip Buddha preaching exhausted contention an’ satisfaction to people with ugly skin colours and flat faces, narrow hungry eyes scrabbling to taste your monk’s boot.
Why Me lord, what have I ever done to deserve awareness – what right had ye to rape me with free will?
What right had ye to birth so diverse a people, and make a fierce world?
What right had ye to make us fiercer still; that we could kill with inactivity and social laziness and a conscience developed through insincere miscommunication through electronic airwaves with no repercussions and we’re all warriors behind the alphabet, thanks to ye.
Why Me lord, watching dystopian poetry flickering across these cities of men in streetlight articles and the yellow light of tender apartment blinds. Why Me lord, with pavement silhouettes and bowed heads by laughing women flaunting stark forms above these sex-ridden streets.
Why Me lord, with ART, the disease, carried by short men who look much taller when they’re smoking online, and who are too slim to wear the shirts they wear and they shirts they print – carried by ugly women who express their individuality through the metal-lipped conformity – by handsome men who ink their flesh with dried out beliefs and prom-queen ladies who howl at the lights of bigger cities than you’ll find in John Bull country.
Oh My lord, why did you make these lightning synapses so easy to love?
Why me and mine pretending to creativity, why give me dreams when I must give them away and live nightmares instead?
Oh My lord, would you have me know the name of the king? Would you have me acknowledge, finally, that I won’t do these things for your love, but for my self-loathing? Will you understand that all the women that I love are not for me, or have been dead for a hundred years?
Why Me lord, playing the seven sins with a pen and stopping every now and then to jerk off like bloody semen rewards? A white Johnson with grim lined lips and calcium-deficiencies and I can’t even lift my foot anymore without howling from a ghost pain I gave myself, cos’ I’m real, y’know – I’ve made these decisions myself and if it kills me than it fuckin’ kills me, but the point is this protracted suicide was my choice.
Oh My lord – why’d you let me make a choice at all if this was the conclusion?
Is it because I’m guilty of wanting someone to love?
I don’t need to be loved, Lord, I just need to explode, glitter for hours at a time like a neutron bomb caught on repeat by some VHS in the 90s.
I need to throw my money at people and say I don’t want anything, I want to be a gold mine and everyone around me can be Solomon and drain me dry of every penny I have and I’ll walk home with other people’s thought blasting from my ears and keeping my own at bay.
I’m guilty of hating woman for wearing high heels when we have a twenty minute walk ahead of us, I’m guilty of resenting her for loving me, for keeping me in chains and shackles, even if I were to wear them anyway.
My arm is heavy with links, and it is only the one inscribed with her name that I assault, whilst black coal iron bearing the legend home sits beside it unmolested.
I’m guilty, Lord, guilty of silent howling at alabaster mannequins in the latest fashion moving down the street, of handsome men in ironed shirts and even smiles and women I couldn’t pick out of a line up.
I’m guilty of reeking with guilt, of tasting of guilt, of sweating guilty sweat.
I’m guilty of the crime of personality, guilty of half-formed and fully-fledged ideologies and of entering art exhibitions with pre-conceived notions.
I’m guilty of not being a blank canvas, but some stained, torn thing with echoes of lyrics.
I’m guilty of Prometheus’ torture, of Odyssean dog-loyalty.
Guilty of torn pages pasted to the tears in my porcelain skin.
I’m guilty of pretension, of applying meaning to those things which have no meaning.
I’m guilty of outrage – guilty of contempt.
Guilty of weaving bloody fragments from these thick, swollen monuments to moments that came by in a flash or never came by at all and, Lord, I just can’t move my fingers fast enough to keep up.