Friday, August 14, 2009
A Bohemian Author Contemplates His Fame and Fan-Base, Decides to Confess Poverty and a New Haste
Indeterminate was it for ten long years,
Severance pay was it to my famous ears.
Did France declare Bastille a cenacle?
Did fruit the tree of the cynical? Did?
Who among you cannot disperse must
Interrogate yourselves for promiscuity:
This is not to insinuate blasé ennui, just
Fecund caresses for the women of a city,
Uhm, did you tell them already? Ready?
Let’s go! The boats are sunk, all reddish,
Oh out with the porridge, am famished.
After this I’m writing again. Yes, again.