He’s magnificent in his mourning
imagining how great his pain wd seem
coming out of a camera
or somebody’s pen

he practices magnificent scenes of passion
& never before seen agony
while he’s masturbating or taking a shit

he can somehow always see himself
thru an audience eye
he kinda likes what it sees
& the act goes on
mounting to ever higher pitches of frenzy
climbing to peaks unexplored by any psyche

he is massive in his untold grief
breathtaking in his eloquently silent loneliness
if this was just a movie scene
or a line from a poem

how beautiful he wd b
how wonderful his acclaim
how much more it would feel

if it wasn’t really him