I can’t sleep. I’ve listened to you all night.
Over and over, softly through the floor.
This must be your art, your craft. Sodomite.
Pervert. Poet. And while I could say more
there are a thousand reasons why I should
stop here — I’ve wasted so much whiskey on
myself, I’ve bled, I’ve gnawed on green wormwood.
And you — with your, “Afternoon of a Fawn,”
and your beastly hands and cruel antlers —
You sing low. That noise, that slapping nuisance,
fills the night with voyeuristic heartache.
All art is illicit, it seeks pleasures —
In your pause, in your last note, that silence,
coming from below, keeps the world awake.