I have in my hands the oil which waters
The prophets—I know them clinically;
Their prescriptions I fill cynically.
The rusty lips of all of my daughters
Are pressed like cotton to my waiting ears
As I kiss each one, raping them to see
If I can occur and conquer T.V.—
I must grope fame before it disappears.
My Goliath appears when I am here,
In this purple perception, with no care—
The summit of a mountainous affair—
My Goliath remains my puppeteer.