Borderline Love Lyric 4

When the blood & the booze have
run dried and dry,
respectively; when
thirst for the end or fin has bin
quenched to bitter liver's quiescence;
when a small fortune in aluminium
is brewearybreathing in the recyclingbin:
a few more avantgarde scars,
no wrists for the wicked.

When the poetry of another headspace apocalypse
has been bluebloodymurdered into hoarse ink:
thumbnailsketch of a broken brinksman,
brinken brokesman giving life the fig
(unopposable now it's adorned w/ the pawned
ring of truth).When flaccid fury's
astonishing, cold & useless
l/ a forgotten cuppa discovered on Pluto.

When my flat reeks of tomorrow's stale Amber Leaf,
dregular joe of filthy menthol butts
in a mug emblazoned w/ the legend, 
'Do I look l/ a f**king people person?!'
You might have noticed I'm no phoenix,
ashes don't refresh me, so I rehash 
that same old jaded promise inwardly:
healing begins anew tomoz, stop smulking
1000th time lucky. Please, me, be plucky
(until the pleasant fucking comes...)

When I industriously try to frantically trace
point at which Lack conquered me mindless
this time around. So many pat answers waltz
in & out of the frame,  
dancing partners w/ sweet fandango to say.

When I have to accept w/ a muckedabout middleaged
heart, that such acceptance of sorts as a 
hungover evening's allpervadingsenseofdefeat affords 
is tauntingly temporary, sterile envy
as impotent serenity. 
One night only (yeah, right).

When I plead, 'Is it so wildly overambitious
to covert one more golden sober  Christmas
in a lover's arms, even if I'm Mrs.Claus's 
backdoor elf?'

When my sense of frivolity is too deadly serious
to play the Game, all that evolutionasty,
socialdarwinist love thing happening here baby or what,
statussphere treat 'em shit shit of simply trying
to not be alone. When I don't want to 
barter what paltry resources I've huntergathered
for your sultry glances whilst you still have 'em
to cast another's way:
inevitableed. 

When I didn't want to fuck you l/ an animal
- Norfolk jokes aside, I don't fuck animals. 
But I would afterlive as the Great Worm of China,
Midgard Maggot Messiah, segmented horizon 
in units of unction impaled 
upon hooks of eternity, for just 1 night
of your love fully human, soulfully a bitbroken,
broken l/ worms or the Christs of smallchildren.
Answer yourself, poet, art thou a worm?

Image of weakness, not very manly or masterful
that I haven't offered to roger you w/ handle
of Death's assistant's sickle, I know, 
but pseudoviolence or pseudopseudoviolence
a.k.a. quasiviolence a.k.a. full spice obviolence
in the sack (tho' deffo the bit of how's-your-Dennis's-dad  
du jour and for all I know since 50 shades of yore). 
Still, it coarsens
both the spanker and the spanked.
L/ our culture of acquisition,
or the palettes of gorgers,
or odes to Borgias, 
or divorces,
or way rape changed my angel, my pensive queen.
Come forth, worm of the silent valley,
'tis I! I who have seen the gooey corona
of her heart even as she bade
another maninthemoon to
eclipse my sunblind swoon.
But agonisingly accordianed,
nailed larval bunting of my perpetual maggot
plea bargain w/ whatever karma ark of Eros
is a heart, a segment full fathom five festering
w/ tanking tenderness
so out of time & fashion.

The tendernow is ever of the essence,
for some buzzkill tomoz on the spot
Death will come between us
l/ a good soul breaking up a ruckus.
Tho' as a Pyrrhic token of esteem, I'd like it
verymuch should you round on that grim samaritan
and scratch his eyes out, erm, jab his sockets
w/ affected chavette ire. 

When Mother Nature seems a cosmic Joan Crawford,
casually caging me in a cupboard
w/ all the other inconveniences.
Future ghosts in hanging coats
l/ bad pennies on my case,
debts of despair lent in bad faith,
coldcalling me by another's name 
all the way to the grave, 
wee wee wee wee.

When my younger brother 
in some hamfingered butterfisted stab at 
heliotropification of my proverbial pecker, 
w/ a hallowed kid's knownothingknowitall bluster,
robusts out the old naive
'There's plenty more Lilimarlenes in the sea':
hey, people are fucking special unique snowflakes, bro!
I have to believe that, otherwise it's only me...

When yet another beloved leaves or never even arrives,
and I polarflip into Crazy Artist Mode 
to keep her here, in effect to keep her alive,
fixate so she thrives, because gone is gone
when all's said and done. So I'll never stop talking,
my obsession will win your immortality.
L/ a poet, you have no choice 
about being a born muse.
Out of sight, out of...
No, not even for a minute,
even tho' 
all that's left is a boy
who threw himself away  
when you dropped him l/ a stone.

When the cleanup begins.
When the cleanup neverends.
'Whenever's too cavalier,
and tho' I'm too fargone to know
if I'm being sincere anymore,
I want to write just 'just when',
leave it awkward, leave it open...
I begged you and it didn't work, 
so instead I'll beg the ageold question
whether you only ever realise what's loved 
once it's broken, 
who loved you now it's you left forsaken
by some forsookin' cunt.