The False Bohemian

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
A stain is upon the canvas
Smudged like an ape's smudge
With its own excrement --
Men with clogged noses
Minds asleep with exhaustion
Swollen from snoring and snorting
Courage for their cowardice
Cannot smell the putrid scent.

The bohemian laughs in derision
At men drunk with pleasure
His saturnine countenance sours
With cruelty and charm
Scorn that perhaps loves or does not
Needs not niceness for its confirmation
Nor proof for its compassion
For these who cannot suffer long.

That which is unbounded
Must be bigger than the sun
You think of the frail walls
And find them bourgeois and small
Or mean and base, but a foundation
Is lower than all things and so
You will be poured out and drunk
By men coarse, wan and strange.

Listen to those who reach upward
Even the fools, do you hear
If they preached your religion
Or pricked your ear with rumors
Or ate with all sinners
Or wept over butterflies
Or could not hold their vessel
You would listen to them;

But hard and small and perfect
You roll like a marble
Full of chemical romances
Of reports of brotherhood
When the patricians are all dead
The great are just burghers
And those who trade in letters
Are but peasants who think they can read.
a postscript is here written:
Bankstonia william burroghs

"when the fundamentalists finally do eat you alive, I will pray for your soul."

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