death, and the poetic license revoked

if i don't want your attentions
attuned to my frequency,
then why does your lavishing upon l'homme de jour
rub me in the wrongest of ways?

am i so jaded? do i want these hollow expressions of fidelity
flying at my own face; no.
if i'm so sick of the cycle of love and false love----
together, apart,
it's real this time no it's real i swear----
then why bother?

the anger isn't coming as it should.
i sit here, i ruminate, i jab
at the deflated circus-lion
sitting in my headcage
(once-proud fiery beast)

and all i have come to know
is this:

i don't have the words, the rhythm, the rhyme.
the would-be passion, the florid soul:
it all comes out like grey garbage-spume,
liquefied brain in a hot waterfalling leak
from my head through my ear to
splatter and dry
like birdshit on cracked asphalt.

i'm less out of tune than i've ever been;
even my arrhythmia's got no signature,
it's fainter than ever,
my beats are strong and clear.

there are only enough words left to make my head rattle.

you thoughtlessly throw yours around.