He wobbled and puffed and pretended to be strong
He feared the purity of nature
That it existed in spite of him
All he had was the knowledge
Of his failings
His therapy, Ink on paper
Words fell out
From his angry booze-mouth
Crashed down to his fingers
Where they marched dull,
Plodding towards an insubstantial sacrifice.
The only things he really knew how to do
Was to kill
And kill again
And feel the deepest self pity
Oh and blind stupid cruelty
Made him feel like a man
The decent thing to do was to
Bring him a weapon and a bottle
Mock him
Kick him while he was down
Then whisper into his ear
‘’Arm yourself, you impotent creator
You scared little man
Pull the thing close
Suck down
And shoot.’’
And then the only good thing he ever did
That last gutter gasp into immortality
Big
Bang
We were released
We were free to make him
Into something he never was
And when the world finally stops
Being attracted to weak strong men
We shall forget him
That mess on the wall
That mess on the floor
The smell of shit and spilt whisky
The tang of despair
The incomplete.
From the Outside, Listening In. 
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