IconElegies

 It was my divine play in the mental hospital. The actors were crazy, the director was crazy (me), everything was crazy, and the Parisian nobility loved it all. Of course it had to end. That too was taken from me, the bloated, sick sadist. Oh. All those manuscripts of mine, which my son destroyed. A note from a poet. The Marquis de Sade, was a writer.

My heart did not burn even in fire, in my life it burned, without thinking about anything, and I obeyed. My wife kept my heart for decades, and that was the longest she had me. My heart could not withstand the storm at sea either, and stopped beating when it drowned. It washed up with its master on the Italian beach sand. How else could a poet have died? Poet's note. Percy Shelley was one of the most famous poets of the Romantic era.

 Life was a play for me, whose last act I decided myself. Shame was not part of my plans, the soldiers laughed and mocked me. I escaped my shame by dying like a warrior, I had made myself a warrior, but I was a fool to people. I decided my own death, my last act, but I did not take Japan with me. They would have needed me. A poet's note. Yukio Mishima was a Japanese writer who committed seppuku after his failed "coup".

My last dance was cruel. A dance with flames. I had to give up that dance too. No one is saved from the madhouse. That's where we're left. I wasn't That Girl anymore. Nothing after Goofy. We lived a life where only Goofy lived. I wish I could dance one more time. Until the end. A poet's note. Zelda Fitzgerald had to give up her own career for her husband, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I was cursed. That's how it had to be. Cursed in life, cursed in death. My desire to die, that's what finally got me. No one else would have stuck my head in the gas oven. I knew I was a genius, I knew I was great. I just wouldn't be there to see it for myself. My desire to die won. Maybe it was meant to be this way. Everything in life was either too much or too little for me. Poet´s note. Sylvia Plath committed suicide. Today she's a classic poet.    

That's how it happened. The football season was over. I lived a long time. Too long. Even a young wife wasn't enough to keep me alive. I've already done everything I wanted to. And I dared. This wasn't fun anymore. I wasn't fun. I decided my fate, like always. It was easy, it didn't hurt. And you don't shoot just anyone into the sky with a cannon. Poet's Note. Hunter S. Thompson was the father of gonzo journalism

My short life was crazy. One day, I delivered a challenge to a duel, and I got shot myself. The emperor's cousin shot me. He couldn't wait, I guess. And the madness didn't stop there. My death was to start a revolution. Even crazier, women rub my bronze penis in the cemetery,  thinking they're getting pregnant. Not me, of course. Anymore. Poet´s note. Victor Noir was a French journalist who is buried in the Pere-Lachaise cemetery.

I should have died many times, but I only died as an old man. I no longer drank the cheapest wine in the cheapest tavern. I lived comfortably, surrounded by cats and young women who admired me. I had to live to be the king of the lazy, a group that no one wants, with outcasts and madmen knocking at my door. But someone had to do it, someone had to bring hope to those who no longer have that joy. I had the biggest balls in Los Angeles. Poet´s note. Author Charles Bukowski is still hero for outcasts.

I am one of the few who have hanged themselves after they were dead, and whose brains have been missing. They could hardly contain their emotions  when they let them examine the brains of our terrorists, like the Nazis did back in the day. They wanted to know why we became violent. Why do we even have to ask that? They would have looked around. And they would know why a star journalist became a terrorist. Poet´s note. Ulrike Meinhof was a RAF-terrorist.

 They found me wandering in the street in clothes that didn't fit me. My end could have been written by myself, dark and uncertain. As I lay in the dim light of the hospital, dripping with feverish sweat, I had repeated: Reynolds, Reynolds! Then I went to that land, which had always been true to me. Lord, help my soul, if you help the wicked, and you will. Poet´s note. Edgar Allan Poe was a brillian novelist. 

I fled to Paris, because I didn't want to be a star. I was a poet, not a clown who makes money for others. I couldn't escape myself either, I died in a bathtub, so the story goes. At last I was clean, clean from a life, which was too much for me. My death is true, the rest is a story, and that's what I like. Now I lie for eternity as the object of a national pilgrimage, believe it or not, I am a poet, not a star. Poet´s note. Jim Morrison was one of the most famous rockstars.