I look older than I am.

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What is the story, information as seen through post Eliot and Pound?
We see a delirium, of spice and snails...incense over ever-encroaching decay.
While my dream life, a brain destined to make associations that aren't there.
Or name drop a reference in a desire to be seen as literate.
Not the overweight, balding freak of tooth decay and "you need to take a shower," I am.
Yet I find the coolest trick in my bag is an awareness of my failings.
Not the bouncing jingle jangle of bells that my incompetent vocabulary can't defend.
But looking you in the eye and saying no matter how much I say I am sorry, nothing changes.
I can lose weight, but the sagging net of scars will not make you my number one fan.
Nor will my legal psychosis make you sick, no matter how much people act like I am contagious.
I can hate, and I can hate, but rage won't make me number one on the bestseller list.
so what I am left if you can care enough to ask is, "I should have no legacy at all on the best day."
because when I told God I wanted a perfect body and soul, he told me I was a "creep."



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