I never had an interesting personality—
It all goes into my poetry;
Poetry which thrills and sings up there on a quiet stage;
Here, among you, I’m the father to impotence,
A polite, grinning, veneer hiding my rage:
I cannot believe how stupid and selfish
The lot of you are; your concerns
Momentary and trivial, your taste
Numbed by the flamboyant spectacle
Of a hopeless moment for that moment’s sake.
I don’t believe thinking exists anymore—
I feel its lack in one, long, dull, anxious, stomach ache.
The giddy folly of the craven crowd
Is the only thing down here that is really allowed.
When I hear you talk, I want to yell at you
For being so dense and impolite, but I hold my tongue;
That’s right; I’m dull, perplexed, and old.
In the heaven of my poetry I’m seductive and young;
Honest, witty and exciting, like the violinist
As simple and vulnerable as the lamb,
Who picks up the violin: Beethoven. Damn.