I Accuse Myself
I accuse myself of squandering my youth
in booze and succulent vaginas, and gladly
I accuse myself of landing an excellent job
for the sake of booze and succulent vaginas.
And I accuse myself of treating women
not as people but as places I can leave, and so
I accuse myself of flouting human decency.
Then I accuse myself of shameless hypocrisy,
for frequently I denounce moral turpitude
and define out loud what's right and what's wrong.
I accuse myself of mysterious minor injuries
discovered on my limbs hungover mornings,
and then I accuse myself of self-loathing
and of promising the mirror I will change
my style of living, which destroys my youth
in measures too small to gauge each day.
Too, I accuse myself of showing up for work
and presenting myself as a responsible adult
and of doing my job efficiently and expertly
for the betterment of a tolerable company,
while I remain intolerable to myself and conceal
the fact of my despicable nature from people
well-disposed to my gregarious affability.
I accuse myself of accusing others of mendacity
and outright fraud, when I know myself to envy
the flagrancy of power abused by the higher-ups.
At last I accuse myself of thinking I'm the greatest,
capable of having become a rock-and-roll star
or a famous actor, when today I would settle for sex
filmed by a practical stranger in a filthy room.
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