You are. . . .

And you wished, wished that, just once, it could be meant for you, that fortune might favor the severed finger as it twitches lifelessly behind a sardonic smile, the cavern of a candy mouth, your saprophytic intentions commemorate your every failure at leisure and you are as guilty as you make yourself to be as momentous and tantamount to a head without a proper home that shall wander for eternity upon that stump that raises itself proudly from your shoulders, an erection of a different kind but full of the same incessant pride that you only wish you could shame yourself for and why do you stare in such a way as if someone will lift your steel lenses and gouge out your searing eyes can you see? can you see without the light, do you need a mirror to believe that no one can love you as much as yourself and even that is an insufficient affection; what have you lost, lost forever in the cyclone of diversity, loved and destroyed out of sheer jealousy and are you as guilty as everyone else or do you harbor a different kind of crime, one without a name? Introduce us, please, introduce me to your new disease my last was lovely but short but painful but pretty and I could float without salt, fly without wings, but its all gone now, all gone, dead and laying amongst over-turned leaves of fall of amber and days of a summer that I lost to a state of sublime health, but its gone now, all gone and a new needle could be cleaner than the one sticking out of your arm, are you a disease, a failure, a picture of deceit the pleasure of discovering that you are all that

. . . an old man.