Persistence of Self

I.

I.

I.

I.

If it´s not about me it shouldn´t be about anyone.

I´m unique and gorgeous,

like an orchard vomiting purple dreams

over the freshly cut grass of April.

I´m the muse of Lord Byron´s corpse.

I´m the wet dream that drenches the thighs

of the ghost of Oscar Wilde.

I´m a cuntless queen

swarming through the streets

of a city in which poets don´t like to live.

I, the joke.

I, the vacuum of meaning and sense.

I, the shock and the schlock.

I, the rejected poem

I, the baseless megalomaniac.

I.

I.

I.

I.