So hungry-sensitive that hecraves day and night the pap of praise,he'll ease his gripes or fingerpaintin heartsblood on a public page.
The ordinary world must bealtered to circumvent his rage.
He'll tell, with stylish Angst of course,the inmost secrets of our bed.
Words are far worse than drugs; there isno hope of surfeit or remorse.
The world lies wide, and warm.
No kiss,no child, no prayer will keep him here.
I'll wash the floors.
He'll watch the stars.
I'll salt his life with common sense.
He'll suck my sap and vigour downthe crude mouth of his private hell.
Visions have no equivalents.
He'll die of drink and candy bars.
