Forty poems before breakfast
Two novels and a screenplay in the afternoon
The demo-tape after drinks.
Each fuck-and-run carefully notched in your belt.
The burden of your current-but-temporary
Ordinariness
Has bent your neck, so all you can see is your navel.
The leitmotif of your work is a frustrated moan:
Me Me Me
I I I
When
will they finally recongize my greatness?
You've been so busy (overworked, really)
You ought to step down and
Give those showy auto-destruct antics a rest.
Because there's another young man
Who's grown old with waiting
For a chance to speak
And when the patient one finally says his piece,
He'll knock down your angry house of faux art cards
With a single breath
Before calmly stepping out of the light.
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