the body

by the end

We were talking about big artists and how they always forget to eat they’re so into it whatever they’re doing then they go to sleep. They dream and paint in their dream and they make lots of love all the time in their dreams and yeah sometimes in their real lives too but how would we know. We’d just imagine. We’d be rich enough to buy something eventually, but then we wouldn’t care as much. So something would have been lost. For always. Or maybe we’d never be rich so we’d always have this burning sensation as if the world were a range of brilliance and interest in motion or singing. Alive you know still inside our desire. And we’d tell each other where to look. And we’d want to eat whatever we saw. It was that kind of life we had. Not the working poor but tough enough. Ants with ideas or a certain taste not butterflies. We’d go on until we couldn’t. We had to.

We were saying they can get away with anything. Not that anything goes except in the pretty sayings of Cole Porter. More likely that nothing goes probably in our own sphere of influence that’s it. Who wrote “Can’t Get Started” then sat at the piano and sang it from start to finish with a really apt memento mori in the last few bars. But the world’s a big curtain for them or at least a clean or grubby sheet. Maybe the wind has a way with it. Maybe they have to ball it up and cart it off in the laundrybarrow. There’s nothing you shouldn’t say since a brave impression isn’t much better than what the news brings up. Dinner comes early this time of year and I’d eat it as they serve it. All up if I were you.


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