A man composed of vice
Writers are the laziest people I’m not.
What did the German lunatic
scribble softly in his study—
public opinions, private laziness.
A pox on text says the self-reflexive
medicine man who has not yet been,
but might be—order confounds order—
it is a sorry sort which finds
its passion in the pen rather than
what some call a military in the gonads—
somewhere a misanthrope is abusing
himself in the dark, or writing
like graffiti new verses on his brain
he stole from a library,
where men go pensive, leave wicked—