Why do I have to mean a thing at all?

Why do I have to mean a thing at all?

Why can’t I lean it up against the wall, look 
sideways at my rotten luck with it and fuck 
with it and chuck the book at it and lock it up, 

and love the shock of it because I felt like it 

and smelt like it and belted it around my loins 

and in the mouth. When it purloins my penis 

recklessly – that feckless heinous flea! – let it 
go south and leave the rest of me. Let dreams 

consume the pest. From which may come 
the boom-de-bloom of other underhanded 

schemes and unsubstantiated themes 
inviting blight and brightness to incite the heist
that lights the rightness of the next zeitgeist.

.