I once knew a guy that was dead.
Except he wasn’t, but he’d say he was.

The way he’d roll up his sleeves all tough
To show his temporary tattoos:
Rows of cuts
That trace self-loathing

A rabid, pathetic, child at the mouth foaming

And he’d have this ridiculous strut

So that when he entered a room you’d feel this
Air of inadequacy that only his approval could fix

But I never took any of his shit
And when he’d flash the pen in his pants
I’d say my sword was mightier

Then I’d dice him a new asshole or two
And he’d leak in the sheets and take them outside

Hanging them on the power lines so that all could see
His poetic pain