Now Efi (not his real name) is bored with the show. His own interpretation. It is too obvious, how they set the poor poet up, pushing him to damn himself, flatter his fancies. They are going to bring him down by nodding at his speeches, applauding his conceits. If you want to destroy a poet, first publish him. Allow him readings, performances. Let the fool dance to judgement.

Efi just shrugged away the thought and continued listening to the poet's ramblings. In too deep. No one could unravel the complexities of the plot, the question he is trying to invoke, the moral he is trying to preach. And yet, they nod. Buncha' sheeps. It is too revolting to stay, to be amongst the fake. Fucking dicks. The poet is talking about the unseen paradox of materialism.

The nodding crowds are made up of yuppies with skin the colour of dead money and tongues, whiskey coated with cancer. The air was thick with irony and no one in the book store can even smell it.

Efi starts to hate the poet. If he is true to his craft, why would he continue to recite his works to a crowd that is the living contradiction of what he is trying to portray? He is long destroyed, Efi concluded. Stripped from his voice, raped of his thoughts. Juxtapositions of his words are mere bullshit. Enough is too much, more than Efi could bear to hear. He despises both parties, the poet and his audience. How many more will fall? It is obviously too late for this poet, he has gazed into the empty stares of dead presidents and has long fell into the lying arms of luxury.

Disclaimer: This story is not written by me. The writer and source is unknown but kudos to the person who wrote this.