At last he had escaped his creditors And now among varieties of rose Spent mornings sitting naked in the garden Assessing verse and trying to recompose His work, although he felt its essence harden. Still at his feet he saw the dogs and whores And rearranged again the things he bought, While priests slinked past and hurried workmen darted, Each creature operated as it ought. As chauffeured cars arrived and friends departed He saw they envied why his vision blurred. And he was happy then, for he well knew The exchange rate of poetry to deeds, That cut-rate price at which he smuggled through Great art that grows greater as it bleeds.
Cool poem
Perhaps my favorite so far.
i think it's been said before but you should really consider publishing these somewhere.