An ideas man with no ideas,
incensed by common sense,
setting off down the path of procrastination and showy distraction,
because doing anything of actual value would be an abomination.
Obscenely out of his depth and out of touch,
tough on nothing but the nerves of the rest of us,
a sycophantic sock puppet for the same old solutions, that have never solved his many problems.
He has an idea,
that he borrowed and bastardised,
stripping the sheen from it until it is dry, tarnished branches on the ground,
and he points with a smile,
waiting for us to be amused and amazed,
but it never happens.
Leave the bottle on the bar.
I’ve kicked the can down the road,
tracking its rattles,
trying to hear what lies inside,
but I think it’s just another thing that I don’t want to know,
so you don’t need to know either.
I sleep in shifts,
paranoid and flanked by my sycophants.
My best boy is a sociopath,
nouveau riche narcissist,
talks his shit in a rehearsed accent,
and I’m safe,
because I present him to you, to hate.
I live while the sun shines,
hibernating during hard times and harrowing winters,
the road ahead, red with rust, is not for me,
so here I’ll stay, with slowly sinking bottles,
closed eyes and constantly changing subjects.
I’ll hide behind wars that are not waged in my direction,
excelling in the fine art of obfuscation.
Don’t you know, you’ve never had it so good?
I’m your heartache,
I’m your hate,
but you love me, unconditionally,
in my delusional dreams.
I’m sorry that you feel that way.