Onan's Vision

In rooms that smell of fingernails and spunk,
With light bulbs lit and curtains drawn all day,
Hooded figures hunch over manuscripts
And agonise which pen is best to write –
Gel, fountain or biro; black or blue ink –
Their masterpieces of modern fiction,
Untrammelled by talent’s dull restriction.

They follow Onan’s vision to debunk
All that is not the Self; the right hand way –
Empty cradles to desecrated crypts –
Which leads them ever further from the light
And closer to the vertiginous brink
Of an abyss that stares back from their eyes,
When they would be better off serving fries.