poem: seungri, burning sun

he was desperate: too in

love with the madness in his soul that came with

applause and with people

laughingsmilinglaughing at him; the concerts halls

smoked up with the devil

and the afterparties full of hands clapping

his shoulders because it was only

him making it.

and he had carved immorality into the drug-sick swaying

bodies in the clubs, the bass so loud you can’t hear

the women

screamingscreamingscreaming

(long dull yell, high whimpers, cut through it, cut through it)

in his backrooms and his screen. there are women always

lined up dusty on his shelves, and falling into the parts

that demand proof; the girls ripped

apart are worth the boast.

success is not dusty dawn mornings with his brothers. it is not seas

of nameless faceless

angels and ghouls waving crowns at his voice: it is not

the foreign girl crying at his lost innocence (so ironic, when he lost

it long ago.) Don’t you think

he looks like he killed a man? Because success

is only in the dark stage when he steps on alone

and they are screaming for him, alone,

and nevermind the screaming of the women, they are not

here.

What a nice dream, little boy. I hope they are

screaming for you now.

 

I hope you remember: that Gatsby

died

alone

at the end.

 

 

 

 

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