A poem without a name

Civil war crusades,Genocidal. Twists of fate,
Speaking my mother’s tongue in vain,
Are people like stars—just light and names?Straight promotion to the great unknown

Golden hoop rebels, beatniks thrown—Thursday's child still has far to go
Between Bed-Stuy good guys, aye,
Astrological greed scattered the stock market constellation.

Hypernormalisation documentary on screen,
Shabby chic, but what’s that even mean?
words won’t pay for a room of of one’s own

Humble squire, frigid whore,
Ireland’s dream—romance, war.
Curse your name, get your beauty sleep ,
Betrayed before you’ve time to speak.

Fuck a preacher, feel made clean,
Saint Peter asks did you try to kill a King.
Did I fight or did I fold, regicide Jack Kerouac sighed
Was the war hot, or merely cold?

Eggshell steps, autoimmune disease in bloom,
hepatitis B. D-list celebrity.
I tune it out to keep things sweet,
Pretend civility wasn’t massacred on Wall Street.