ain’t sweet 16 anymore

he is what you might call a bohemian of independent means,
a descendant of the gladiators crème de la crème,
who was also for a time the lover of Viva,
an aficionado of superstars,
since the mid-1990s, he has lived,
comfortably and at full throttle, in Never Never Land

the most hated individual of the year,
according to Maga Zine,
a fancy dive, a most visible platform,
prone to dwell in the sketchiest roadside vacancies,
there’s a sunbeam that sweetly anoints a full rack on a white torso

there might also be a dismal suburban sub-tract bloody birth,
or a bouquet of putrid, decomposing remains scattered across an indignant road,
make of it what you will

what made it all the more challenging was that it was all so perfectly boring,
it could be made only within the palette you might find in a fatal accident
or the interior of an empty stall or the strangely mesmerizing blackness of an open pit

like a plague howling at a wicked imp,
that keeps returning to the scene of the crime,
drink up, beautiful dreamer, drink up,
ain’t sweet 16 anymore,
you’re standing in a long line of happy disappointments,
tiny angel, be silent, go to sleep,
tiny angel, wake no more,
and this time, no one will be bored