for the longest
time i just sort of
assumed, what with
all the ideations,
i would follow
the plath school
of baking lessons
for the miserably inclined
yet somehow i have
settled into this
bukowski period
of crotchety rage

despite daydreaming
of drowning in the sheer
blank expanse, the
fucking embers burn
in a panorama of
sinful delights upon
which i still yearn
to gorge myself happily
if only i could find a way
to vanquish the viscous
varnish of vicious vicissitudes
which besiege a bewildered
fool in bipolar malaise

pretty ladies with
disinterested smiles
who want something lower
than my heart only to find
a hellscape of emotional
entanglements waiting
will be my oven eventually
despite the haggard beard
and odes to the abyss
i went headfirst willingly
until the very fucking end
leaving a trail of destruction
in weak knees and shuddering
moans for miles in my wake