In fancy shoes and cheap clothes
Write mournful songs no one wants to listen to.
They know all the words
To 80’s underground
Later gone mainstream.
Just ask them, they’ll tell you.
They get erections
From being clever,
And they remain inside, cold lonely hands wrapped
Around their one prized possession.
They are surprised the relief is short-lived.
The rest of us cannot see them behind the mirrors
They use for windows
And so, they remain, anonymous.
They don’t really want to see
With carefully drawn soulful eyes
Wet with amniotic fluid
They dream deeply of shallow things, and false agreements.
They will tell you the meaning
Of the word
Because, again, they know just about everything.
And that we are talking about them.