There is no more any pleasure except
in dying each second through transgression.
As in when you tell me not to
try to kiss you, and turn your lips away
and I still try.
Or like not taking part in competitions,
or sending to anthologies unless sure of acceptance
knowing that this is the way in which
lies all my losing and escape,
not engaging with the reality of the unplumbable depths of my failure.
Transgression, also, in killing and drinking the ants that never did one any harm;
every such act symbolizing or equalling
similar untold, innumerable lapsed moments to loved ones
and resultantly one is only: the monstrosity of the lost one.
Poetry it breeds, no doubt, that seems like
the darkest of prayers
But if my self is only such transcendent illuminations
of seasons spent in hell and proverbs garnered there
why do I still long for human company?
No more shall I expect it
since no one can understand this
who equals or rivals my law-breaking.