You’re the Lady Madonna’s most recent abortion.
You like the way the gutter tastes
But you won’t spend the night there.
Your poetry is lipstick and bare breasts
Your charity is a pair of high heels.
You revel in abuse and abuse your rebellion.
Teenage dream that woke up screaming
In the manacles of the modern cycle,
Smelling of booze, cum and regrets.
You should never have any regrets.
So much less sexy than the toys, props and safety of your fantasies.
Reality sours like that glass of cheap red wine in your shivering hand.
The dream is over, youth slips away like the dregs of your tea
Leaving no leaves or ten-cent prophecies to stake the future on,
Just death at the bottom of a cup,
Cold, bitter and withered.
–Jack Blare, 2016