These celebrated dead men I find repulsive-
philanderers, drunks with silver-smooth tongues-
who kept a bit of the wrong spark, it seems to me.
Where rebel-young women pity horny old men
at the bottoms of bottles and bottles,
there is more indignance here- at this hunger
for the raw types of knowledge, the unsatiated lust
for bluebird flesh, so rare,
which neither can give to satisfaction.
Such temporary crossings in mismatched hells,
feeding and sucking deeper down into the end,
until just hardened, pristine eggs are left
for the dried-out addict corpses to tap,
consoled to costar in their making.
But which of these is to blame for the dragging:
the tormented easy-exit slaves
the ones who should’ve known?