SAXIDERMY.

whenever someone speaks
it is always about themselves
all writing is a form
of ego stroking

that certain joy
in embellishing the bad
and exaggerating the good

and who wouldn’t
want to hear
about you/me.

when the slightest
depression
hits the page
it sounds like a symphony
that always needs more
and more
from the string section

and all the brass
is so hollow

depicting moments
of insanity
after the fact
seems like a game

you become the painter
and the canvas

controlling the entire image

and if it does not
shock
then it does not talk
and if it does
it doesn’t seem to have anything
much to say

but when the shock is gone
all that is left

are empty chairs
where the orchestra
once sat

you begin working
from a certain state

and though you grow
out of it
in some ways
you keep returning to it

almost like a crutch

they say
sometimes
to move forward
you must look back

but always looking back
you are bound to crash into something

and sometimes that something
is the pit that is your past

and you want to make the pit dark
if only to keep you moving forward

but soon
that darkness
seems nothing more
then an oily
puddle in the morning sun

and the screams
are simply the chirps
of pointless birds

who are either complaining
or begging
for the same things over and over

and they will not shut
the fuck up

you focus
on the oil

and sing like a
taxiderm version
of yourself

it is easier to be defined
by what has been done against you

then to be defined
by what you have done

Of course
I’m not
talking
about
myself.