(harping debutantes)

My brain is a hardy fool toiling his subterfuge along as a lifestyle he so gladly raised in place of true respectability. when he whispers in the bathroom mirror, wine stains still puckering his lips, 'fuck that' and returns to unwielding dreams of success in bed and on record for all the world that might want to give a damn and soak him in before he turns again to ignoble pursuits.

Or just decides we aren't worth his time (even though he might just be right).

Because in soaking grey days i really couldn't give a shit either. wouldn't dare condescend to care what the outsiders have to say about the art world for the price of eighteen ice cold silver bullets (not my first choice, but across the borough). would rather rot my time than chase an idea i had two years ago even if that means i isolate myself three more days this week.

Fucking sundays.

Never once been worth their weight in salt peter even when there was the threat of god looming large enough over my family to get me in a pew on early mornings to eat the body of a man scripture says i'll probably never meet because i enjoy the pleasure of living far too much to apologize again.

And why should i?

I'm versed enough in my glaring regrets. i know the guilt i can't forget. why the fuck should i say a prayer for all the time that i spend drinking? smoking? eating meat on fridays? jerking off or fucking when the fates offer me the chance?

If i were a man as corrupt as i fear sometimes i just might throw myself in the arms of the word. i might seek solace from the coming fire in daily rosaries and enough penance to salvage bukowski from the bottom of the dead sea.

But then i'd just be cheating.

And i could never live such an unfounded life.