lacking a patron
(for none would have him)
the playwright-king
mounts his own show
and foists it
on a captive audience
of tone-deaf sycophants
and car-wreck curious
he inhales the noxious vapors
of phony adulation
and so intoxicated
he humps the stage
in a frantic, orgasmic fury
of self-delusion
my show is staged!
he crows between
stilted sonnets
gratuitous guffaws
predictable plot-turns
and mediocre monologues
the gathered, eyes glazed
by the ghastly glow
of borrowed limelight
sit slack-jawed and dazed
by the barrage of banality
and onslaught of pretentious hoo-haw
the show ends
(mercifully)
and the playwright-king
exhausted
by the many pre-ordained
and automatic curtain calls
takes his final bow
and floats from the stage
on the enormous gas-bag
of false approval
outside the gilded, makeshift theatre
discerning throngs rush past
the slap-dash marquee
in a tsunami of indifference
deaf to the roar
of their collective yawns
the exalted hack
slumbers soundly
blanketed by reams
of self-penned praise
on the fluffy featherbed
of his outsized ego
dreaming
of his fantastic, hollow triumph
all hail the playwright-king



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