Always Singular, Never Alone
I quit drinking Cristal Not because it’s prejudiced But because Jay Z says It is intolerant.
When the Jigga man says jump You look down at the earth And you say ‘all paradises Are imperfect.’
So I never-never ever-ever gonna be seen sipping on the Crissy again.
Unless it’s free Or it’s too dark in the club to read the label Or it’s too dark to read Or I’m just drunk or that’s all room service has to offer and the two nubile And semigloss semi-nude swoon-beams in my bed right now Can’t think of anything left to say except ‘Mimosa! We are sensitive herbs. Mimosa! S’il te plait!’
And it does very much, the playing. Never sipping on the Crissy again.
Sometimes you have to sacrifice what you stand for to keep standing. It really is a hard knock life. I’m sure J-hova would understand. He knows it’s tough out here.
He knows the world is a taking for us takers to take. He knows the new intelligence Is sex, cash, and fashion. That music is an extravagance.
That the new poetry is seeded deeply in luxury. That desire is an unfaithful lie. That there is no true hedonism left when you are true to yourself. He knows; there are no real ghosts in a Phantom Drophead coupe,
That the past will haunt you but can’t chase you if you’re driving A V12, that survival is the diametrical opposite but not the antithesis of Art. He’s right— Armand de Brignac is just as boss and the bottle is more player.
(As a poet, given the choice, I will always concede to good taste.) Luckily there’s a concierge for everything. So I’m going to pop these corks And toast ‘We are alone!” There’s no one here that will not condone The bubbles so no one here will condemn the bubbly. Votre santé!
The fact of the matter is a matter of faction, the same legended thing is the same legal thang. No matter what we name it, it is what it always has been; the same old condom you were born with, if you’re lucky, a couple championship rings or a song listened to more than twice.
Always singular never alone. Never Alone, Singular Always.