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part i.
just for tonight.
i want to be the pretty boy
who everyone
creates abstract art about
and says my poetry is bittersweet
like a wilting flower
or models smoking weed
laced with pcp.

okay, no one says
that last thing
(but i refuse
to use cigarette smoke
as a theme
in my damn poetry.),

but i often wonder
how i'd be received
if i wrote things
that weren't so angular.

obscure
and obt(r)use

or repetitive,
or repetitive,
or repeat that first stanza again
for me.

just for tonight.
i want to be the pretty boy
who everyone
creates abstract art about
and says my poetry is bittersweet
like a wilting flower
or models smoking weed
laced with pcp.

but i am not pretty
and i've heard stories
of smoking weed
laced with pcp
and only foam
fell from the mouth
of a needy fool
and only pills
followed the
perishing,
cracking,
pooling.

like being fka-
-good kid
in a mad city
and this is more compton
less london
and i'm not pretty
because i'm honest.

part ii.
but there's beauty in ugliness.
and i'd be lying
if i said i don't roll my eyes
when i see the fawning fawns
stumbling like bambi
learning how to walk
over flowery language.

because flowers fucking die
after about 2 weeks
in glass vases
so take off
your rose-colored lenses
and smell the, ah, no,
not roses.

smell the shit
of honest expression
and eat it up
until it shows on your features,
and there's honest expression
of the truth serum
and you're shit-faced.