Your Apocalypse

sometimes it's beautiful
when the sun hits the bay
just at the right time
with the right speed
with just the right amount
of arrogance and pity
on this beautiful city
that wreaks of shit
piss and cum

the reality of the beauty
is that it is being built
on the backs of
paxil and prozac
filled artists who are
in a desperate stroke of
their own will
are trying to
never be sad again

but not me
i've officially embraced
the unthinkable truth
the deep decay of my soul
that has been wrought
upon the earth
where i spit my curses
and my limited blessings
but believe the sarcastic
wit that is flung from my throat
as the critic wails
in passive relief
that the surrounding city blocks
would ultimately
swallow me up
in it's cervix

then there's this sexual
dialect that is wasting away
on the tongue that has ruined everything
but i don't speak lightly
of the damage
no, i believe in it
i relish in the desire
to cure this wickedness
with a shovel
and pure sweat
the books and their authors
say that it just can't be done
the shovel breaks
and the sweat dries itself
in the heat

then the toxins of my past
rise up in an angry mesh
of lust and fucking disgusting
filth in the form of a
one way dialogue with
the man who gave me
my first birth
that is now rendered
meaningless by the free gift
but yet you throw it in my face
with your declarations of false
humility in the face of the sweat
that never hit your brow
and the shovel that you've never picked up
and the curses that you have spit upon me
every day of my ecclesiastical
meaningless life

oh yes you have given it to me
but you can never take it away
you will never lift a finger
because your useless bones
now creak with the reality of your
age and the altruisms
that gave way when you gave them away

yes, you've got these words that you say
and we're all supposed to eat gladly
but you will meet the fucking grave
and no one will bat an eye
because all of the people
that you have massacred
with your pain
will have gladly
forgotten all about
you