This is not about you,
although you are stone cold and sexy.
And know when to wear mascara,
arouse aristocratic gargoyles.
Atop your sinister leylines,
multinational corporation tendencies,
the sickness of your genius
is mysteriously not contagious.
You say you've lost your chastity
in some repentant despot's house.
Or in a Twenty-First Century version
of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
You pretend you long for boredom,
the monochrome sound of bells.
You're alive in a violent land
where the knives can cut themselves.
This goes beyond the breaking points,
beyond foreplay for the pacifists.
I just might think I love you,
break your three second rule,
destroy your copycat mutations,
unlock your superficial door,
divide your puppets from their masters,
become your wandering neurotic eye!