The Death of Character

This body which is not mine
Strangles the apprehension of genius: 
We are the shaping of impossibility 
And I detest my own history 
For the fact I'll be known
Forever unknown to myself: 
This occurs frequently with poets 
And it's do to with a predictable reaction 
To the final end of the synthesis 
Of opposites: 
I execute my perfection by emphasising 
The uselessness of my being
And so I am forever too late, 
The remedy for the claimed nihilist 
Praising himself in the value of ignorance, 
Untouchable by my own admission 
Due to the fact I understand his death 
All too well — I am his imagination 
And so, he doesn't exist: 
These are all just notes on a train 
And the irony is, there's never a metaphor: 
I hate to speak and love to do a hero, 
Who else if he is not living? — 
The brutal despairing quality of continuity 
Creates a being I'll never know the origin of: 
It was divine when I was a child, the child 
Who ignored and not the sole divinity, 
Forever I always returned to a home 
Where I had no will to be me 
Or forever known for peculiar singularity: 
The antithesis of proverb is inevitable
And death is purely negotiable, 
I can only speak for myself, as you know, 
I would apologise for the sickening 
If it was my fault, but unfortunately 
I know it, — we never deserve an apology: 
The only desire I have from a woman 
Is to be surprised, yes, to be surprised: 
I always created their conversations, 
Her reaction to my astute idleness 
And the ‘he just has something', 
For the reason I am not like the rest 
Is because I am the rest, and always: 
Of course I despise the procurers of children, though their philosophy is mine
Which is why I will always condemn them 
And send each of their soul to nothing 
And not the good kind: I am condemned 
To life, and nothing else if I keep breathing 
And anticipating beauty as a cause: 
I want to be remembered, but the will 
Is your knowing and sympathy, the earth 
Is too bare, our history is not enough, 
It is obvious our memory is a hindrance 
But to be forgotten is true freedom 
Though no man forgets himself, 
If he does, he is not a he, he is not a man, 
But I suppose that is perfect perfection 
And not any kind of kind to be nurtured 
To a nurturing of neutrality: 
I have the will to comment upon the last line - this is all the will, you can laugh, 
That is the only reason why I dance, 
And my next birthday is always vast 
And approaching like something I've never met: how about a cowboy riding over the sunset, something posterity will suck dry -
Thank fuck. — here is ‘this', torture: 
Mother will never know. — we are always 
Waiting...waiting for the manifestation 
Of my apprehension of genius; 

To party now, separate. 

I will always ask: 

What have I missed out on?

Of course (the girl I imagine reading is sitting on a train, on a red seat with occasional lighter coloured but bolder straight lines which to me serve as the reminder of how much I detest the texture of the body they compose but now I realise how amazing it is for we have finally got here and you write about me as if I once lived as yourself, she wears glasses, has brown hair, and totally adores me, I just sat next to her but lost her after getting off due to necessity for mother, she had a boyfriend anyway, I was already dead - when were you last star struck?... reach for me, you know how) the javelin is direction of symbol:
I hate being discovered, but it’s why I live,
Since I was a child (why must we always reach back, as if we never tried to move forward? If I saw myself, I’d probably cough up blood, yawn or masturbate) I have been the founder of all the poets,
And not in the way you think:
Of course, I say this, as if I was to die,
Please ignore the colon:
She is the restriction of winter in the bountiful melody too simplistic to disguise as numeracy in bloom; I wish we were together, so preserve my death
And defy all expectation; isn’t it obvious’?’ - Satan fell in love; we all fell in him;
Too smart for my own good, I always
Rubbed against what I pushed down
And there was always a sexual connotation, but it was mine, no one else
Was ever involved, and so it was God’s,
For Satan only rises for himself, not for me, the future I always imagined involved me, I enjoyed sacrificing myself for a reason I created to be loved by all,
I will not mention his name for I know him,
As soon as I die I’m as good as living,
Without the irony:
Soon I will leave prematurity,
The prelude of recorded destiny,
Embarking on touching what no man has,
All before I turn seventeen — what ever
That means!...I guess we all have loved.
Just a thought, is there a enough transvestite to transform castration,
For nature to reveal herself as a man?
Not now anyway, for in the age of seven
I will discover every necessity for death,
Meaning I will have touched the crevice
Which god could only have dreamed of,
This is god himself, as you all know,
Until I told you: After this, after I Alone
Have stood at the end of the universe
And created another one without the need
To rehearse or rejoice, I will find starvation
And include in the eight the rest of the comrades
Of which all the other poets
Seemed to have precluded from their choice — either that, or the obvious:
That I, and, honestly, only I
Have lived — and loved,
But this must have been before,
For living is the I at last reflected,
Seeing itself, but its seeing is now not
Itself: eternal love acts as if
You actually had the will to create it.
If you feel sadness, it is enslavement.—
Save me.