the architect

I’m tired of
building empires that don’t stand on
anything but chance;

yeah, there’s fancy
buildings
but they only house the rich,
taxpayer-subsidised cliques,
old dogs up to old fucking tricks,
walking contradictions all
around.

yeah, those stone
paved fictions we brown nosed instead
of opposed,
addicted to
getting blown on the third date; it’s a
sickness, sticking dicks in a lawnmower for
material gain.

There ain’t nothing but pain
chasing your fifteen
minutes
and god
forbid you
finish prematurely,

virtually a minute man in the eyes of other kings,
one step above the eunuchs.

now I’m feeling
mutinous,
like Cupid firing poison darts in the space between
arrested hearts,
because I built up
an empire
others solely wanted ripped apart.

My army’s in the streets now
watching riots pull the windows down,
glass shattered outward and from
a bird’s eye view
I focus
on you,

whom I built this city up for,
who leads its wards
to all night looting like
some suicide bomber stumbling
in the dark.

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