when Hugo Wolf went mad—
Hugo Wolf went mad while eating an onion
and writing his 253rd song; it was rainy
April and the worms came out of the ground
humming Tannhäuser, and he spilled his milk
with his ink, and his blood fell out to the walls
and he howled and he roared and he screamed, and
downstairs
his landlady said, I knew it, that rotten son
of a
bitch has dummied up his brain, he’s jacked-off
his last piece
of music and now I’ll never get the rent, and someday
he’ll be famous
and they’ll bury him in the rain, but right now
wish he’d shut
up that god damned screaming—for my money he’s
silly pansy jackass
and when they move him out of here, I hope they
move in a good solid fisherman
or a hangman
or a seller of
biblical tracts.
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