Once Life and I have divorced,
after the estate has been divided
(I playing noble disdain
have thrown it all to her.),
I shall find a villa upon a hill
to paint my masterpiece.
Discarded bodily fluids
colorfully coat secreted walls.
Murals carefully sprayed along
bohemian brownstones.
Sauntering down sleek city street.
Light catches oily puddles,
intellectual cafes,
art salons,
freak show casas.
Anoint ye effervescent night.
Playing to the jaded,
ennui amputeed,
outcast drifters.
Less distant, a sweetly lilting tune
meanders like wisteria.
Is it a dirge?
A sassy New Orleans carriage ride?
Is it the beating of my heart
spraying a trail of bleeding homage?
It is a wedding march,
played slowly, out of time.
Beat by beat, more leisurely.

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