The Rumor

Vanity’s a pig:
it slavers, over-eats.
It craves the very big.
Its blunt compulsive beats

drive it to madness –
worn pink, like sanity.
Its schemes of gladness –
and suave urbanity –

doom it to glamour.
It showily believes –
but wields the hammer
that clubs down and deceives –

or thinks it does –
as if the patent form
beneath its buzz
were not a bloody, warm

and rotting fact.
I thought those pics
of me lacked tact.
They all were tricks:


not true by half!
Does freedom lie in humor?
I couldn’t laugh.
I had to stop the rumor.



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