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If beauty is immortal and loneliness is worse than death,
those seeking compassion and companionship
will totally ruin poetry.
Alcohol changes the brain.
You block beauty’s subtlety even as, dreaming in drink, you block the pain.
Great and bad poetry become the same.
Decayed, miserable creature! Writer!
You cannot detect beauty in the details of this poem’s lips and eyes!
Your poetry is a mockery, an apogee of painful lies!
You don’t react to a single exquisite feature!
Not only is she six feet tall,
skin as smooth as marble,
she has a beautiful figure. Standing at ease, reading a book!
You failed, poets. Don’t look.
