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P.S. Eliot
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Augustus
augustus, you keep fooling me
i have these wry epiphanies, like i could change
the excess or auxiliary
we fuck it up with envy and accost in vain
every word the same
the impending truth of our wellborn youth
the subsequent or the demise
to praise or to antagonize, it all sounds the same
the arrogant teenage prestige
seems like such a distinctive breed
disheveled fame taking steady aim
on cerebral wealth, or my own personal hell
and i put down the pen, a disjointed rebirth
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of celebrities among the scum of the earth
and you look back confused you know that i will be there too
augustus, you keep fooling me
i have this sensibility i can't suppress
and we carry such a heavy burden
with every vulnerable word we can't express
and there's nothing to lose
when there's no room to move
and the frivolity is a temporary haven
like what we're drinking or what record's playing
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