Mea Culpa

vagrancy brushed off his bloom in the first sap of his spring.
he lost the vigour of his youth and the fair red of his cheeks, he cannot see,
just let me breath or cease to be, i’m so fucking sick of living inbetween,
life like a bone was empited of its marrow inside, and my slender had been
calibrated by young and fertile minds, study the greats, learn the world,
tellthe truth and confide — i lied.
lost in those mundaines.
in that every-day minutia.
i just gave myself to heartache.
to the ubiquitous confusion.
infamita, my anathem, i tore out that fucking catheter, ill plunge fingures
between stiches.
no kitschy backhand pitches.
i know one must make himself ugly.
to expose the ugliness he sees.
torn, i know my innermost torture is yours.
but iv’e learned, now iv’e growm, a fool dressed in silk, is a fool just the
same.
but is a fool yesterday, no less a fool today?
we can change.
dear friends, we’re one and the same, vagrancy brushed off his bloom,
in the firsed sap of spring, hear the indian summer sing.