Self-Bequest

He put himself in his own personal purgatory,

And its muscular arms of incest and greed. 

Of self-supporting nepotism,

Because, he knew

He couldn’t make it on his own. 

Not because he didn’t have the ability,

But because he didn’t have faith

In who he was. 

He eschewed people who bought him gifts,

Saying that neither were worthy,

And instead sought the empty promises of friends. 

Building his castle 

With ghosts

Around his table, 

And the town’s debauchery 

Hanging from his coat tails. 

He put himself in the purgatory of No Man’s Land.

He bought pubic hair by the metre

To sate his fetish.

Sucking on it and

Feeling it mingle with the 

Unshaven hairs above his lip

And calling it

Satisfaction.  

“I have friends …”

“Trust me, you have none.  

I have walked in all their dens

And found that none defend you. 

Their eyes, each, look far away

And try to case a fine word.  

Even your brother cites you in slander

To eager audiences 

Who want to believe the tale. 

You have to remember that

Some traits

Run down the line.”