On his deathbed in his apartment
Surrounded by priceless antiquities that nobody wanted to buy
The ailing "radical poet" had me over
for afternoon tea
"And you are familiar with my work?”
“Yes sir,” I lied
flattering him as best I could
"I knew all the right people
Now I’m so lonely.
All my friends were famous
now all my friends have passed away"
"Nobody will buy my prints
…you know I was very important
My work was very beautiful.
But now I’m dying
I want to know why I wasn’t more famous?"
"Do you think you could do something for me, journalist boy?
I’d like to get some posthumous recognition at least
Could you be the one
That makes me famous after I’m gone
Ask me about anything and everything
I’ll do my best to answer
As you can tell by looking at me I’m a great man."
To be honest, it disgusted me
I couldn’t stand to see it
At least the unbearable, egocentric old punk types
have the dignity to die forgotten and unknown
I excused myself from his apartment
Repulsed by his hot death desperation
Is there anything as pitiful
as the "radical" "underground" "mimeographed zine"-type
who secretly wants to be famous