by Julian X  /  poetry  /  27 Jul 2007
Dry faded words strung like
rosaries pleading large advance.
A photograph, chiaroscuro lighting
as some expert (whose name is
chased by letters but who avoids
them in all other contexts) advised, of
the author. Sitting, smoking. Looking
deep while his airbrushed skin looks
smooth among the other greys.
Any desperation of working while
unrecognized, unpublished... any
passion of loneliness, and any of the
inevitable expectation of its dissipation
or even reversal upon fame’s arrival... any
recognition of approaching death, of
devouring impersonal cancers or immuno
deficiencies, of coughing through aged
lungs or twitching of arthritis fingerbones...
none may be unearthed from the carefully
beautiful words or piggybacked images.
Reading, inquiring and hoping to be
reading, joying; looking for the hit to be
returned, for the quick commence to
happy intercourse; one finds inextricable
ink, an impenetrable creator, and that the
whore has no panties to remove. And
one hopes for the distant day when
pages go brittle and yellow so that
message, now with decayed broken
medium, strings poetically at long last.
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