Frank Bidart’s “Self-Portrait, 1969”

Lyrics
He's still young—; thirty, but looks younger— or does he? . . . In the eyes and cheeks, tonight, turning in the mirror, he saw his mother,— puffy; angry; bewildered . . . Many nights now, when he stares there, he gets angry:— something unfulfilled there, something dead to what he once thought he surely could be— Now, just the glamour of habits . . . Once, instead, he thought insight would remake him, he'd reach —what? The thrill, the exhilaration unravelling disaster, that seemed to teach necessary knowledge . . . became just jargon. Sick of being decent, he craves another crash. What reaches him except disaster?
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