Ne Pas Mon Semblable
The Poet is
so so so so (read like eliot o o o o)
full of despair.
Reads
april is the cruelest month, hypocrite lecteur.
had we but world enough,
in Xanadu,
we could see the best minds destroyed by madness
(in the original greek or french or german
whatever vogue language)
and flips that turtleneck just so.
Writes
always in the black notebooks
in the cafes (thinking, are they noticing how seer-ee-us ah look?)
and graveyards,
wasting
too much paper
on bad rip-offs,
careful indentions (now it looks like eecummings,
note to myself: erase all the
punctuations for that more professional
look)
titles like death, hate, love, thinking sinking stinking
martyrs to literature gods that
would laugh at black fountain pen stigmata
if they noticed at all.
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