So much ego wrapped up in minimal
space, those vain names. I’m strapped in strapless flame,
split to the hip, one of those criminal
little black dresses whose name you can’t name
but crave all the same. “Unsung,/ well-hung: come
hither, as/ in, slither and cum.” I know
why you feed on praise, need praise, any crumb
tossed your way. Your plain name, your low-down woe
at not being a god, the way you dress
your pride. One day, when you crave more than bliss,
come slink with me. We’ll prowl wearing glamour-
cut cloth. Instead of arrogance we’ll bless
our souls. Nameless. Simple. If you knew this
you would. But you don’t. Not now. Not ever.
According to Buddhism the Second of the Four Noble Truths is that suffering is caused by selfish craving and personal desire.