when all is
said and done
my life’s works
spread
across the table
like the legs
of a dead whore
i hope
to be seen
as ansel adams
through the lens
of zdzisław beksiński
pure emotion
strung tight
in a sadists corset
of sorrow’s twine
not a
poor man’s
bukowksi
with sylvia’s heart
on his sleeve

we don’t
get to pick
our legacies
just keep
ripping off
the best
pieces of ourselves
throwing them
against the page
hoping
someone
thinks the ugly
has meaning
while knowing
deep down
it’s just as empty
as every promise
ever made
or every dream
ever dreamt
dust
in the corner
of the uncaring
eye of eternity