Butterfly Screams and One-handed Claps

Well now, James Douglas,
     what have you?
  Prancing lion, slinking black leather,
      shedding snake skin
   for whiskey bloat—
the sun sets in the
                                 west.
Some might say; but really,
     is booze the muse?
    Not to mention,
  who wants to be
       another drunk cliché?
My scars mock like a
     clown's face paint.
Philosopher poet, self
        taken way too seriously,
               bottled ego boost, sped
   self-destruction.
I am no saint.
     I've fucked without
   emotion; and
I've had my heart set
     ablaze,
  snuffed and torn from my chest
    and stomped.
Learn to forget, and life
                         is beautiful.
     Just the same,
   I grow my beard to
             hide my face.