right works crazed with manic energy
and we stay up late for them
the good ones go young and unpublished
rest of all stick around trying to be young
and published
thoughtless notes running through the anus
and mouth crammed with exotic mysteriousness
our strange bearded father now dead of cancer
leaving nothing unpublished and us wanting
grand exit – stage left
and we bow
– I wrote this
the platitudes of willful resemblance 
say something