There are often people who'll rub
their eyes from beneath their glasses
as if it were some photographer's sick
fetish for heroin, blood and fucking.
What's worse are the artists who'll
tell you it's not wise to call them at work;
their excuse being "suffocation." (Most
likely from the noir beyond it).

And some people's illustrators; hanging
themselves on some obscure public wall.
It's clear and sad, but everyone knows they
could have made a better pair of shoes.
That's where most of the money goes anyway:
a good blank stare, or trimmed hedges as if
the sake of the neighborhood's morale was
on the table.

The poet's dress size is a flesh-coloured
bikini. Not unlike posing nude in the
first place for your family's palette, (the
parents and the parents' parents, etcetera).
Some days, like some phenomenon, creation is
only practiced. In the studio directors try
to figure it all out: Fade in. Thank you horny
insects that it's finally over. They missed it.
Pan away.
 
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