There is little mercy for the artist.
Deep as whale’s bones where their heart is,
even the smartest, who like possessed sails
spun their hardest, fail.
Straw stays straw regardless.
There is little mercy for the artist.
What is real but what you feel?
Pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend all of your life
at the spinning wheel.
What is real but what you feel?
There is little mercy for the writer,
who, despite swarms of tiny wings inside her
like so many splinters, will never fly
as Icarus did toward his lighter in the sky.
Hers is to toil in circles, like a spider.
There is little mercy for the writer.
What is real but what you feel?
Pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend all of your life
at the spinning wheel.
What is real but what you feel?
There is little mercy for the poet
like one who is dreaming but doesn’t know it.
A fish in a mirrored tank thinks he’s met another fish,
and either tries to seduce or to intimidate it.
His whole life is this moment.
There is little mercy for the poet.
What is real but what you feel?
Pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend all of your life
at the spinning wheel.
What is real but what you feel?
What is real but what you feel?
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