The nights I'd spend in some cheap ***** room,
drinking bad wine and hearing talk of your wife-
never I'd seen a man wrapped in such gloom,
so bitter and tired and weary of life;
You'd say you'd leave her and throw her away,
to hell with your job and kid and the cat,
we'll pack up our bags and be happy someday,
so happy forever and more than that;
Yet now here you go and walk out the door,
breaking your promise and saying goodbye,
leaving me covered in tears on the floor,
and all I can do is shout out this cry:
"Henry, you *******, you'll tear me apart-
Henry, my darling, don't break you my heart!"

This poem,
I pen,
for a dazzling *****,
a putrid beauty,
a gilded deceiver,
who plays me around
and tosses me out
as whenever she feels.

No heart beats inside her,
she is harsh and uncaring,
she's cold and unfeeling,
passion-inflaming,
setting fire to thoughts
of her and none else.

Leaves me restless,
powerless,
doting upon
that big nose,
those sweet lips,
her stumpy legs,
her luscious hair,
her gentle face,
that lovely smile-
her,
her,
her,
in a word-
her,
that hideous girl!

I am lost,
dazed,
unsure-  
Is this love?
Is it hate?
Or is this something,
in between?

Walking among a group of friends
in the park,
and I am still
the loneliest man
in the world.

The man seeks salvation
in books, in knowledge,
searching for things unknowable,
meanings he'll never find.

Dressed in all black clothes,
he used to love to stroll,
across the middle of roads,
basking in the night.

The bourgeoisie?
I loath them,
and I hope they buy my poems!
The critics?
They know nothing,
and I hope they hail my poems!
The intellectuals?
Dumber than pigeons,
and I hope they canonize my poems!
Unabashedly,
I'm not afraid to admit it:
I write for fame and riches,
and nothing really more.

Yes, yes, make no secret of it,
I wish only to shock you,
arouse and repulse you,
****** you,
with mindless,
gore-splattering violence,
and heart-throbbing ***,
along on every page.

****** and *****, gore, and blood,
how else are my sales to flood?
It's art for arts' sake,
or something to the effect of that,
whatever makes me edgy,
socially relevant,
to scholars postmodern,
housewives bored,
and teenagers yearning,
to read ***** words.

So keep it then in mind,
my lovely readers you,
I very much like infamy,
and piles of money too;
be sure to buy my books,
praise me,
“Fresh and new!”
So that I may hire cooks,
to save time writing verse,
the very verses you adore,
lambasting the very rich and poor.

Rampant materialism,
spiritual decay,
what else do you
*******
want me to say?
A saint of the lowly,
the offbeat too,
voicing the obscure,
and the unheard and the
blah, blah, blah,
whatever it is,
I really don't care
quite honestly,
bluntly,
I'm being true,
I write for the fame
and the riches,
not you!

This dance is for the truly lonely,
the desolate and unwanted ones,
who haven't even got shadows behind them.

It's a difficult one to do,
sometimes very painful,
most cannot bear with it long.

The beat is slow and lifeless,
passive and somnolent,
done in the manner of a hermit.

It's played on like this,
from the earliest hours of morning,
into the darkest hours of the night.

Not a pleasant waltz by any means,
and yet I find myself doing it,
night after unceasing night
until I get tired,
and drop asleep.