Eyes Without Sockets

i.e., Here's looking at you.

Art has abandoned us—we don't love,
    we fuck like corpses and claim it's revival like 
        botulism in the eyes 
        of a rich man who can't

decide if he wants to die or transcend or suffer & 
    lie collapsed on the pavement & 
        bleed through the moment
        & bleed into society, 
            as social as a shooter whose future 
            is stuttered &
    poetic and authentic like a mood 
expressed & proved & tested by peers 
    who hear the
    fear and cringe 

because it's all just a little 
too “sentimental”.