Set the clocks four years back?
Turn the fucking television off?
Adjust the volume on the radio?
Know what it's like to be you?
Well, let's not get carried away...
I invented English;
I discovered Spain
in a hot air balloon
and drove to clinics
to patent electricity.
I channel surfed the English channel
and developed an allergy to royalty.
And even though I had everything,
I still went bankrupt over medicine
you told my pharmacist I deserved.
I am the King of Clovers
and the Emperor of China.
I am the laziest kind of poet
and the worst liar since Socrates.
I am the son of two virgins,
neither one qualified to adopt,
for I died in a vagrant's womb.
I've hatched from misconception,
yet I was aborted when I was six.
I will wrap the moon around your right clavicle,
and teach myself languages that don't exist yet.
my tongue will foxtrot in Hellenistic alphabets;
my body will scream sans circadian frequencies
in a way that only the heir to a magician would.
I will be born to a Greek God.
I will marry Athena at sunrise
and make love to a mermaid.
Even the serpents will be scared
when I fuck Medusa's heart out,
whimpering in coils of dandruff.
But I will not, for I have lived
in the center of the universe,
and there is nothing my legs
can't slither away from.
My daughter is Artemis,
and my son is Chaucer,
and I'm drunk on absinthe.
No, I am not a philosopher,
but I sure as fuck can pretend.