Hungry

Pestilent pretenders grapple for first place.
Hard bodied, and coked up. They fight for the all-illicit
Award of ‘Faggot of the Year.’
We are all the players and the judge.
We climb the mount, summit’s sight, we claw and scratch,
But no more a rock to climb than the insecurities
And ill-willed bequeaths of the queens of the Scene.
Lost, as those boys seeking to find their truth in the baggies
And syringes and rocks and raves find…
Found: a dichotomous life;
To see and be Scene.
To seek and be sought.
To know and be known
As a lover without love.
I find a scraped and worn, tattered cynicism,
Tipped and known on the tongues of these
Blind mendicants as the sense of diligence,
Encouragement,
Persistence through the tempest
Fall asunder in this self made storm.
We fight, and claw and surpass and
Lay surpassed by the next
Best hard bodied coked out
Midas of self-deplore.
Blame has no place here,
My fellow mendicant,
For we do not bludgeon each other.
Only a self is inflicted by this disease,
Only a perpetuator is the victim.
Found: a voracious life,
Hungry.