Aubades i

At crack of dawn we dance upon the grave
of the celebrity of whom's life we write a biography
mowing around the plot, the lawn of literary slave
hacking the flowers and the work like chopping off spires
that touched the ivory tower sky, now beclouded by
the memory of the victim, unnamed, a fifteen year old,
who may or may not been subject to force, the fires
of passion, burn, in the life writer's veins, as the rave
reviews are in the grasp, if only to raid the old body
of dignity and pride, to make public a would be crime
so to puff the life, embloaten the critic, yet you know,
the love hate relationship of the writer and the written
lasts as long as the vampire in the coffin lid open
then like Faust, the deal is done, and the moment gone
Since as the light of day reveals the deed of expedience
Which makes from hearsay a common inheritance.