The Archer

The winner's world, that's worth something
to win or lose— it's not the place to play
archer in, darling, where how you may stay
where you are is to shoot, maim, disable, sting.
Like so many tow-heads, you haven't learned
this. Where you set the easel up in your
mansion, lead dog-brains on guided tours,
adorn yourself in moon-silver: you're burned.
The road leads three hours to get ten minutes.
Loops tangle with loops. Perfume, pills, all
accoutrement items only worth words spilled
glibly, to take stooges, parasites, by the balls,
keep your own stock arrowed, arrayed, chilled.
You need to win you with someone else, finished—