Now, the famous writer was distracted

by women, coke (not Coca-Cola), and parties.

Before he was famous

he was distracted

by insane bosses, bills, and his wife (who nagged him until he wanted to commit suicide)

but luckily, he went down into his basement

and typed instead

kind of like the protagonist in Dante’s Inferno

who went down

into hell

to reach the mountain peak.

There was a furnace down there

that refused to die

and after his wife divorced him

he had a clear conscience.

He kept on writing,

observing the aristocrats and ladies

who got there

but forgot

how they got there.

It was a mystical island in the sky

that could vanish like a cloud

at any moment

if they forgot

how they got there.

High society people

constantly fell through the foggy air

because they forgot

and they were forgotten

forever,

but the writer had no illusions about the high life,

and he stayed up there, year after year

on the best seller lists.

When he was unsuccessful

his friends admired his writing and told him that he looked great

but when he glanced into the mirror, he was 20 pounds overweight

and his writing was ugly. No number of lies could convince him otherwise.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” they said

but that is the sound of the crowd, making themselves feel better

while criticizing the half-naked rock star, who displays

his six-pack abs

because he knows

he has them

and he doesn’t play to four white walls in a solitary sound-proof room

He plays to the crowd

and that,

is that city in the sky

where God pretends to live (but not really)

and the would-be famous think they can get there

but it’s all an illusion

and they quickly fall into hell

where

a plain woman makes them pancakes

and tells them

“You’re great!”

but mirrors

don’t lie, and to maintain this lie in the sky

he lives a lie.