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.


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