melancholia

sweet soft spoken singer boy,
you polish your nails and keep
the feminine appeal on.
you were just as deceitful then
as you're a liar now,
and i wonder about the
other self you keep along side
your shelf of used pre-packaged condoms.

boy meets girl,
boy pretends to be with boy.
a gender garage sale that was
created with the bisexuality in
you and i.

they all loved Marilyn's sex appeal,
and Jessica Savitch was always willing
to put up a fight,
but she lost the battle to the golden locks
and her cocaine trail.

i know what you're thinking,
so don't even.

humanity finds God on the magazine aisle,
CD rack, our own American Idol.
you were always willing to sell it out,
spread your legs,
and pretend to be the new Messiah with
eloquent words written in praise of you.
all girls love to be whores in the bedroom,
Martha Stewart white linen table cloth
that was bought just for you.
we know men demand their virgins to remain tight.
but i'm still,
i'm still coming now.

down the leg and to the bedpost,
with my ankle all tied.
twisted,
twisting,
the psychological frame work of your mentality.

and the world falls into silence when a
groupie bitch decides to speak her mind.
it was almost as intense as my date with Charlie,
but never as extreme,
never as passionate as your lyrical daily bread.
you as a Messiah never bled when you were
symbolically crucified on a St. Andrews cross
and asking God why the pleasure has to end.
maybe you feel too much,
maybe you feel nothing at all,
or maybe you're as spiritually elite as
Jesus, because you demand that your
followers are like Bartholomew
being skinned.

but you'll fail every time when your soul
is only captured in the remembrance of a limelight,
and the humanity you claimed would never die.