I'm not who, with my eyes from stage
I claim to be
I've only cradled death in my own ending
Flesh from far off and abstracted lit
Candle wick flickering

And when a thing starts finishing around me
I faint or fake a mustache, an accent, or flee
In fear my expired license be pulled by sheer proximity

Fact: the poseur in the bowler gets shot first
Thinks he's the shit 'cause he can spit and curse
Acting brash and flashing a pistol that squirts
Scowling, and shouting, "Shall we dance?"

Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse?
Mom, am I failing, or worse?
Mom, am I failing?
(Mom, am I failing?)

What should these earnest hands be holding?

Still sporting my ex-girlfriend's dead ex-boyfriend's boxers
I want to operate from a base of hunger
No longer be ashamed and hide my
Tears in shower water, while I lather for pleasure