for the vain spirit to accept--
as if decades of determination delivered nothing
but toilet paper to wipe the brain's convolutions--
and all dedication to the inborn ideal
was an ultimate joke of self-delusion--
but to know your enemies are no less fractured--
that their only protection has been adherence
to a socially agreed upon lie to sublimate their failures
and mask their resentment at those who dismissed
their glory-hankering assimilation and ache for approval
that locks them in their canons of crap--
is a cold comfort at best--
they were about boasts of empty fame
while your fantasy was some impossible purity of purpose--
and there we leave you and your enemies--
you resemble each other in the way a hot young girl
practices her iphone porno poses-round naked ass
on her mirror--asses facing each other
through the burnished vanity of each of you
Content (c) 2008-2011 Philip Milito.
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