Humor me as I tear my eyes from the sockets,
juggling them around an idea
you already know to be true.
Humor me as I dip my pen
in blood that leaks from open wounds
and marvel at red paintings of a life
you’ve always known.
But don’t dare pity me like I’m some lesser poet.
I know banality doesn’t impress you.
The revolutionaries won only because
literary wars shed no blood.
So humor me as I carve the brain out of my skull,
put out a cigarette on the amygdala,
smash the clump to the ground,
and stomp the insides until it’s
just meat and smoke.
Caution as you traverse the ruin.
Sidestep the littered brain matter.
I wouldn’t want to stain your shiny black shoes.
If you stumble across my corpse,
shoo the pigeons pecking at my eyes
and shoot the rats gnawing at my entrails.
I hate rats and poets alike,
always so fucking entitled.
Stop for a moment to admire the
flayed mess of flesh and fantasy.
Humor me one last time.
Tell me I was one of the greats.