And so here it is:
My secrets, my fortune!
The untold treasure harbored within my mind--
impeccable wisdom, and tormented genius!
I come to find illumination
and write poems--
in such a fashion as this:
It is I,
with heart on my sleeve
where I cough and sneeze,
becoming mired and virulent--
utterly human and fraught
for the world to see.
The magician who empties his sleeves,
overturns his top hat,
shying off his smooth pallid gloves!
Lies down on stage,
in a pool of my own blood and *****,
retching, trembling, aching,
gasping for air
roasting under an inquisitive lonely spotlight
I stare into
with a distant and longing gaze--
bulbous in sick contortion bulging veins popping
cracked lips gaping mouth tongue waggling speaking in tongues
choking air and body trembling in hideous convulsions--
for what benefit have I,
to purport and distort myself
in such a fashion?
It is for the sake of humanity,
in the flagellation of the human conscience
as it queries further
into the ambiguous amorphous impalpable
dark matter of the universe--
it is for our sake,
that I retch, and I ache.