Past the deep Gotham of my eyes --
The authority of my headache reads
The graffiti of the prophets -- scribbled
On the back walls of the train-station:
Commute, work, commute, eat,
Commute, work, commute, sleep;
Work Buy Die
And Say AYE-AYE, Sir.
How many Dear Mr. Heartbreak letters
Have been etched here -- (I cannot say how many) --
Deep in the Gotham of my eyes --
Cold as a city empty of alleys --
Maybe I'll please the philistines,
With much talk of good money. I'll study
Their scriptures about the nonsense of art.
At last I'll make good --
I'll finally make them happy.
I'll try a new part in my hair.
Maybe I'll put down this pen; stop these letters.
From now on, I'll express myself in tears.