buyers market

i call myself the lyon man
who sits awake all night
who smokes and drinks 
and thinks and stalks
through theme parks
searching for spectacle

i could kill and pass for bold 
in my authentic animal self
ignoring all the evidence
of a life enslaved by fashion
forgetting i know better
and am driven to extremes
that answer only poorly

my values are commodities
the flag is now my underwear
rich goods are on display for sale
the secret self becomes
a cultural product

a kindly man my therapist 
who simply smiles and reassures me that
my lover mistress unicorn
will carry on without me as it were

i am giddy with my new life as an image
with the tools taken out of my hands
looming magnificent as an icon
more real than real
larger than life
just like the president

sublime my dears is the ego
we must not shy away
as an object choice i enjoy
the distress i bring
but better than that is
blowing up all the old ways

hearing echoes
flapping in the mind like dying birds
such a racket they do make
in their throes

as i breathe my last
i will tell myself
i was just here for the cockfight
will the day never come

must i leave my poor sad memory
in the hands of such docents
such keepers of the flame
seeking the sleep that none can understand

where is the crisis that brings awareness and lifts despair
we say the dead are honored by the process
if by nothing else
the manual says it must be so
and that it is their proper function

oh god let buyers be found for my poor project
i am that new product you fools
worth every penny
the finest money can buy

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