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

lonely journey

except another

who equals or rivals my law-breaking.