A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Madman. 

This ferocious memory 

Bled cleanly

Falls Into the face of the mirror 

Along with razors and wiry, unexpected hairs. 

Hell. 

Sure
If we’re lucky 

We age and anger 

Even if the bulbs crack, pop and shatter 

And there’s nothing left but a 

Wasteland on the floor. 

But. 

All of a sudden 

You appear so wrinkled 

Yet familiar 

I speak (as all of us do of course) 

About myself 

So young and wild and once serene 

But softer now 

With harder skin. 

This mirror talks. 

With thrashing thoughts and
Wild dog eyes 

Thinning hair and rusty ears

I peer into the future 

And scream 

Howl, hell-bound 

Like an animal. 

So I can live some more.