Route X1

Here at the border of all things

hope chokes like a sedative

and coffee stains descend a plastic mountain.

I didn’t ask for the capture of cheap piss.

All I wanted was a cheap trip

but I have paid with the familiar mountain of ridicule.

A year more fit for a Southern Gothic

yet possessing more vile, unreality

than any novel

or absent words never penned.

Their pale hands pinch the member

for which shame reserves my seat.

The laughter of a full coach hurts more

than the living laughter(s) I inhabit.

Though inwardly, the vicious undertones

promote my few useless talents

like giving fabulous head

to men who would murder

if with me in the cold light of day.

Any eyes, for that matter.

They both choke

at least one dumps the dysphoric, dysfunction

of body….spirit….soul….

I marvel the sisters I have met

who have resisted

unlike I, and so many others

to make useless talent and risk, into money.

Maybe if I learnt tarot

my fortunes would be different.

But when the new age weaved “self help”

I was forced to master my useless talents.

I hear the Molko in me;

“you want the sin, not the sinner

you love the song, not the singer.”

So when I ask, why?

The answer is you, or us

where friction makes fire

and people make rise.

I strive not for happiness

nor hope, pleasure….

Only for truth, and people

if any of you are still here.