i'm not who, with my eyes from stage, i claim to be,nni've only cradled death in my own ending,nnflesh from far off and abstracted litnncandle wick flickeringnnnnand when a thing starts finishing around me,nni faint or fake a moustache, an accent, or flee,nnin fear my expired license be pulled by sheer proximitynnnnfact: the poseur in the bowler gets shot first,nnthinks he's the shit cause he can spit and curse,nnactin' brash and flashin' a pistol that squirts,nnscowling, and shouting, shall we dance?nnnnshould our heroes hands be holding this blackest purse?nnmom, am i failing or worse?nnmom, am i failing?nnwhat should these earnest hands be holding?nnnnstill sportin' my ex-girlfriend's dead ex-boyfriend's boxers,nni wanna operate from a base of hunger,nnno longer be ashamed and hide mynntears in shower water while i lather for pleasurennnni wanna speak at an intimate decibelnnwith the precision of an infinite decimal,nnto listen up and send back a true echonnof something forever felt but never heardnni want that sharpened steel of truth in every wordnnnnthe small fry in the bow tie dies first,nnacting wild like the spirit of god moving after church,nnfaking he's hard like he's packed down dirt,nnalready, and yelling, be my guestnnnnshould our heroes hands be holding this blackest purse?nnmom, am i failing or worse?nnmom, am i failing?nnwhat should these earnest hands be holding?nnnnshould our heroes hands be holding this blackest purse?nnmom, am i failing or worse?nnmom, am i failing?nnwhat should these earnest hands be holding?