Bright lights
And applause.
And women.
And the rush of hallow fame.
It's an illusion
With nothing more to gain
Than cankerous ruin.
Yet they run after it.
Women dress their darlings
For charade
And prance them in front
Of lecherous men
And crowds set to devour,
All for the empty acclaim
That consumes its subject
By degrees.
And the winners
Pay for their fleeting notoriety
With their souls
And the sound you hear,
That great sucking sound
Is the sterilization
Of a generation,
Their virility
Flushed down the drain
That pours itself
Into the putrid
Flowing sewer
That courses
Down every street
And in and out
Of of every house,
Each man lusting after
That which is not his own
And spewing out
The thing that should be cherished.
And the women
Having every man
And no man.
And all for the dream
That will not end
And leaves them empty.
For they did not understand
That the sacred thing
Which they desired
Is and always was
Hidden.
"To your closets!" It cries.
"Hide yourself and dance
Before the dark and mystic
Thing you don't yet know.
Pour your heart and soul
Into that performance
Which is only seen
By those not seen."
There, in the dark conceives
The cosmic and the real.
All else is smoke.
All else a dream.
Though real it seem.
And high it burns
Into the night!
Into the night!
Buuurrrn!...Buuuurrrn!
"Consume them up
And leave them dry!"
It says.
"Then blow them out
Upon the plain
Where their ashes
Mixed with gentle rain
Will sink into the fertile soil.
And from them
All around will spring
The fairest flowers,
Flowers so sweet
That little naked children's feet
Will dance among them.
And so for those
Who think they seek
For fame,
Remember...
That the thing you really want
You already have.
Seek it in your solitude.
And if you do,
In time,
When the mountains sink
Into the sea
We'll praise your notoriety
As one who shunned
The praise of men
And thus
In that eternal world
Gained it back again.
