Fill your hand

You son of a bitch,

The scholar with war stained dreams,

Frightened insular genius who lived

With phobias stitched into flesh

Men whose work outlived them

And look

Here you come

Not as quick

Not as ruthless

Call them out

High noon on the internet

Cheap links to cheap books

Shining where the harsh sun

Slaps against your waistcoat

Pocket watches without parts

Soft bellies

You can be trusted

With your lexicon of

Earnest puppy expressions

Such great lengths not to be

In the least bit threatening

But we know

How weak men are more dangerous

Aiming a shaking gun

At the past

Because your present

Is a heap of affectation

Fumes to scratch the back of your throat

So challenge the dead

And their immortality

And all for a smattering of

Cynical applause

Eye rolls like earthquakes

As the notion of your ever being seriously

Dies like your career

Five house points

For whatever dismal house

You were sorted into

But you come at the kings

And miss

But no one hears the bullet

Beyond the damp squeak

Of its arc

And those of us

Who sit in the cool shadows

Writing it down

Not even casting you

As a villain

A fart not a force

Of

Antagonism