Transient Biliousness

I am not anyone.
I apparently never was.
In the algetic perdition
I had only my own icy hands,
And boreal idiocy,
To comfort me.
Curdled, my own aqua vitae
Rose blowzy and vile
In my brain and finally
Suffocating the snow,
Muddying my waters,
I shed spring mornings
Into fleshy chalices.
But no one turned an ear,
  a head,
      nor a heart in my direction.
The focus lingered instead
On the caterwauling ignorance
Which is all there is anymore.
I wonder if I cease to exist
Once gone from the sphere.
Will I be forgotten?
A loitering thought in the muck
Of your gathered subconscious?
A Jungian evil languidly lowered
Into the last level of Hell.
Plastering a gallimaufry of litany
And gurgled discontentment
Across those iron constraints,
I realize now,
I am not to blame.