. Words, so many words, ****** of meaning— Flailed at admirers, So much pulp and filth On the ****** page— O how the vain can spill Blood in an ocean drained Of salt, in a vast vacuum Of listeners who only Aspire to sully themselves.
Is there meaning in followers, Deaf, drinking in a whine? Are the stars only gaudy dots To spill on a black canvass? The feigned, would be human Stars fall in the cold, reigning Drivel of wet, grey words, That dry in the sand box desert. Spare us the shallow veins, The caved insights— Of your shadows.