You put a black x
over each eye.
The boy I used to
watch cut up pancakes and ride around bikes
has grown into a man stagnated,
obsessed with no sex,
alone in afternoons with a foaming pint.
And there is no great novel for me,
no textured album or
white coat for you.
It's hard to be a real person, I know,
when you surround yourself with nearly 1700 lies;
it's hard to be close to anybody
when you deny yourself good drugs
and have another something else instead.