prayer to anti-self

and me fallen, which is the worst thing that could happen

to a man like you but better; with the weight of everything

on my shoulders.

 

I’m like you, as a man resembles another,

fly, a flower…etc – from behind: I have

 

eyes, your personality…etc

fixed for good, nailed: I get

dark joy at our suffering, which isn’t

your fault or mine,

 

bitch. Degenerate. You could try walk

my heels, you know,

 

study the multitudinous forms that flourish

in the bower, the fish bowl you’d disown

if you could.

 

See what happens when I tune in/

turn on for so long, stuffed

in my sodden hole.

 

I shut my eyes to my situation;

all the better to enjoy you,

the filth of yr creation.

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