At my very worst I am

Everyone I meet today will be a genius
and a complete dick. They will
probably feel the same way.
At my very worst I am
a pervert with a heart of bronze,
an oral fixation, and swollen
fingers in the morning.

This city was appealing because
everyone is as self-absorbed as me.
This makes for bad parties and great art.
The self-perpetuating “weirdness”
gives our families an excuse
to never visit us.

The more you focus on the worst parts
of me, the more pathetic those parts
become: the last vestiges
of body fat all hanging limp
over my belt buckle. My stepmother
assured me, "it will never go away."

I think up demons, I don’t believe
in magic, I’m so unsatisfied,
I’m not an artist, I’m an asshole...

The older I get, the less I idolize
cult leaders and the more I relate
to misanthropes and exemplars
of promise squandered.
I understand the difference
a little more every day.