Show me the exit out. I'm sick
Of working in this mirror, sick
And tired of poetry maudit
And poetry manqué. I'd eat
This shit to get it off my plate
And shit another serving while I ate,
And you'd call that creative. Now
It's time I rose & shone. Allow
Me to show you some REAL art –
I'm going to cut out your heart.
My dear muse, don't look so pathetic!
This poem is an anesthetic.
Count backwards: wife, life, strife,
Deeper than ether. Now who's maudit?

Poetry is the tang I need
To get a good grip on the knife.

Achevé d'écrire l'equinoxe du printemps 1974.
Voir le poème de Swift "written December 1693."