On Care, Concern, and Consideration
I, literally, wrote the book
let words speak for themselves
if you wonder for whom I speak
to ponder this world, I mistook
emptiness for pleasure
rearrange the books on the shelves
asinine, if I reach the peak
language flows red off of my tongue
literally, blood flows, treasure
yesterday as today, forget
women, wine and song, mate
religion fucks people up, [bet]
only I want nothing, I grate
the cheese of industry, I clung
each day, to past ideas, my fears
treasured by Borges and Kafka
humble before Joyce, to rejoice
each day, as the sirloin steak sears
burn my writings, what do I care
only death breathes life to pasta
only if I had but a choice
kiss me, kill me, this voice, I share
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