Refutation of Fame,

from a man who once craved

I’ve given up on fame but for the voices
in my head. They cheer
me on, poke at me,
they scream profanity—
all that rasp–in ways
both cruel and amused,
enthusiastic as ever.

Can you imagine
after all that

that
I would be stable enough
to confront those clementines
at “Hates Musicians” Records
or “Fucked Up” Studios, with that
pious motto
“Pay us, already,
loser” on every grungy
freeway billboard advertisement?
Those commercials with a CGI smile
(cold greed and ignorance)
And fine print that reads
“sorry *expletive*s”
on the filtered slopes?
Thanks,
but
I’ll keep my own rights, not make someone else’s art
out of “fakeup” caked with ab
pose epiphanies. Not out of
dick-and-shunned words and girls

in the form of clichés
I’ll take the world my way:

blood,
magic,

lonely