Your ego’s bad dream drums that vision
Encountered on page one, pages three to eighty-nine.
Count the wound-up places where we went aground.
As an entertainment, zero. Hero horror. Try the line
Of incestuous relations, hearty friendship, or the cult
Of the ectoplasmic navel and the ravishments of guilt.
Page two was delightful. And the margins were wide;
One was tempted by the imagery of bloody wrists,
Your hysterogetic spasms and italicized reproofs.
You may well supplant the tuba if the music lasts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
ego-stricken maestros & wannabe poets should learn this mantra...sooner the better.