by Aqeel Parvez
a handshake makes the man.
ohhh, salute the sheer tenacity.
them crooks with bruised pockets.
victims shellacked or subdued?
victims?
false, gradual, slithering accusations.
/ so we’re finished, a funeral meets the morning /
/ we’re done, it’ll be you that does the mourning /
prisoners of thoughtless ceremony.
molested ideals, opinions gone bareback.
feelings or derangements?
confusion or illness?
your narcissism is perfection.
it’s your public image? it’s public living, right?
it’s a network of lies, a blanket of diamonds.
/ so we’re finished, a funeral meets the morning /
/ we’re done, it’ll be you that does the mourning /
stolen Russian literature, a blanket Akhmatova.
admire the cover, don’t indulge.
your SELF, your sick sense of self. always YOU + YOURS TRULY.
and who are you now?
who were you then?
why did I even bother???
/ so we’re finished, a funeral meets the morning /
/ we’re done, it’ll be you that does the mourning /
self esteem licked clean.
never allowed, never got round to turn the pages.
crack the encrypted status makeshift
my niceties are coffin, tears obelisk.
/ so we’re finished, a funeral meets the morning /
/ we’re done, it’ll be you that does the mourning /
bite the smile off your perfumed face.
you deepthroat Narcissus, your soul is arid and I am no Aphrodite.
you binge in banality, the juice of impulse wrecked your sensibility.
/ so we’re finished, a funeral meets the morning /
/ we’re done, it’ll be you that does the mourning /
/ we’re finished, your blood in the soil is soulless /
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