Hamlet

You’re worthless,

a leafy performance.

Orgasm, wasted on a mirror—

Your fear is

a white skull

atop a red

encyclopedia.

The laughter of the interior

experience, “To Thine Own

Self” etcetera.

Your inked, ornate

script in Old English

like scaffolding

veined near

a wholesome

areola—Sweet

Jailbate, preening at the gym

another year won’t

erase it.

You tug your dick and yawn,

trying to maintain.

Nothing,

pageantry. You’re empty.

The error’s

your self-loathing’s

incomplete—

Horror, Flowers, Pleasure.

Black Halls.

You’ll live forever. You’ll turn

autoimmune.

Bubonic, venereal,

green

moil of the groin. Like

a tree branch

in summer

trying to shake off

summer—

You’ll learn

the songs that

wither.