Bright lightsAnd applause.And women.And the rush of hallow fame.It's an illusionWith nothing more to gainThan cankerous ruin.Yet they run after it.Women dress their darlingsFor charadeAnd prance them in front Of lecherous menAnd crowds set to devour,All for the empty acclaimThat consumes its subject By degrees.And the winners Pay for their fleeting notorietyWith their souls And the sound you hear,That great sucking soundIs the sterilization Of a generation,Their virility Flushed down the drainThat pours itself Into the putridFlowing sewerThat courses Down every streetAnd in and out Of of every house,Each man lusting afterThat which is not his ownAnd spewing out The thing that should be cherished.And the women Having every manAnd no man.And all for the dreamThat will not endAnd leaves them empty.For they did not understand That the sacred thingWhich they desiredIs and always wasHidden."To your closets!" It cries."Hide yourself and danceBefore the dark and mysticThing you don't yet know.Pour your heart and soulInto that performance Which is only seenBy those not seen."There, in the dark conceivesThe cosmic and the real.All else is smoke.All else a dream.Though real it seem.And high it burnsInto the night!Into the night!Buuurrrn!...Buuuurrrn!"Consume them upAnd leave them dry!" It says."Then blow them out Upon the plainWhere their ashesMixed with gentle rainWill sink into the fertile soil.And from them All around will springThe fairest flowers,Flowers so sweet That little naked children's feetWill dance among them.And so for those Who think they seekFor fame,Remember...That the thing you really want You already have.Seek it in your solitude.And if you do,In time,When the mountains sinkInto the sea We'll praise your notorietyAs one who shunned The praise of men And thus In that eternal worldGained it back again.

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