|A praised painting or such is revealed to be the work
of a lion or a corpse
with a brush. The critics will defend it still becuz? They’re
so rich. God
bless them anyway, their hands in the hoax horse. To flourish is simple.
reality producer don't care if it's fudged : the critics laugh because
content, this stuff on tape. A woman w/ explosives around her neck,
wearing dark glasses & an earpiece : she is telling us that if
a dog or a
woman can “give art” in raw footage then anyone can lead
a flock of spirits
back home for their portraits. Do you note the return of the black
A vortex woven of light? Well, no : it’s the flash
reflected off the camera’s
strap. Then this is the face of the man who hoodwinked the world?
Dressed up as the Queen, asking yr advice about “the necklace”?
I lost my
head though it later reappeared in spiritual form above my real one;
photograph of me in my gorilla suit posing with the senator’s
She who had originally worked in film. Where was I? In the Dairy Queen
drive-thru going in reverse? Ordering sandwiches & drinks I should
consume? I am pouring my Dr. Pepper on the asphalt for my dead queen.
Then here’s Dave Smith, author of The Fisherman’s
Whore, w/ both his
hands on the dashboard telling me Ashbery is a hoax & I closing
my eyes &
nodding because when has Ashbery ever held the best objects
of our time in
his large hands? What is his story? A tape recorder placed
in the back of a
dead man’s throat? I am so blue. I am so blue, Dave, inside
suit, w/ my forty, fifty stories, unsure to be a slut to the page
or stage. The
closer you look at a sword (snake + word) the greater the distance
which it stares. Dave, when you cut a man open, what do you
praised painting? A child trying to read the writing up there?