My corporate messiah,
you wore your ideals (and your sponsors)
on your long-sleeved black T-shirts.
You had the Bible in the palm of your hand
and you read me selected Revelations over
mass-produced coffee. We talked about
philosophy and two for one sales. You thought
I was shallow. I thought you were deep.
You preached Nirvana.
I hate myself and I want to die.
I told you to listen to happy songs. You just laughed, said
that's what the NME is for.
You sat on a wall overlooking the sea
and told me that you wanted to dive in,
dive in and lose yourself in the blue.
You gave me the Rosetta Stone in a cheap metal ring
that you brought back from Tenerife. Even green-fingered
with rust, I thought it was beautiful.
You whispered the desiderata into my ear,
told me that I was your dalai lama, that you
could be my Buddha, and that we'd live together
in a state of permanent enlightenment. You
gave me your chemically induced hand, asked
if I trusted you, Aladdin.
We bought a magic carpet in a half-price sale
and were disappointed when it didn't fly.