From my throne of rock with court of
vultures in tow, I stare down into the
writhing masses of my effigies.
My tin soldiers prance about until
the lashings of my fire make them ever so
brittle when they turn cold. And then
they shatter faster than the skin does
over your liver. But only when watched:
they’re rather shy.
He atop the court of harpies didn’t
give me these metalline ribs for protection.
They make me a god until the stagnant
eye crawls across my pelt.
I’m your Sweet Transvestite, but you can call me
Lady Stardust: I’ll sing songs for you with animal grace.
Like a child, I disappear when you turn your back,
and with just one glance, you can make me a man.
But oh my darling, I’m so bored of being ones and zeroes.
When I’m no longer useful, you’ll
melt me down into guns and cannons,
and I’ll be the stardust in your toys.
But that’s what I want them to do.
I want his vultures to tear at my skin until
I’m nothing but me.
I need more of the fire to coast my silver gilded skin and it makes me so so sick and I promise you I only want to be exactly what I am but I don’t feel right in my skin when I have all these eyes threatening me and I need it and it warps and weakens me into tar and I promise you that it’s not hurting me but as long as I still feel its heat I feel right in my skin and I’m tired of being whatever you see me as I just want to be me why can’t I just be it and not the interpretation of it and
I’M CHASING THE DRAGON TO MAKE ME MYSELF
