FRIENDS WITH TITLES

we seem to dictate titles to each other

and glorify the mundane

the purple rooster chokes

the looser quotes the newspaper
for his sense of intellectual esteem
and the poet laughs

chuckles a so-what-does-the-trivial
want from death?

the grim critic is the soul within

and the looker of youth is old and ratted
with the lock of love in their hair and the
air is brisk as the rain pelts the tree fig
into dirt and the winter flush face of cold mornings
make the covers a fire place

the title
is the glory of high school reunion
and the bum never makes it back
and the time is a joking matter of luck and
facts get blown out into a place where dreams swallow
the last bit of cheese

titles
make women more viable to sleep with
and the title of the spirit is charming to the holy
but for the famous its a laughing stock
and the willing of poor men that need the money
would say anything for the fame
but the bum wills for a title of drunkard
piss stained smell of nothing and the


last thing men will talk about of the dead is

the human aspects we never lived up to

a title
a saint
a
halo of a man