In an anemic world
I am absurd. I am a fish dying on a barren shore.
I am Sophocles, Spartacus,
And St. Sarcastic,
Patron saint of lost causes.
If canned soup and urinals are art,
I am a narcissistic, artistic, dilettante…
Deceiver seducer of mediocre meddling minor characters of a silent film played backwards with Italian dubs.
Some like it hot,
I like it tepid, sometimes harshly cold,
But never hot…
Never the speed with which mothlights moved across the empty screen.
And I am big,
It’s the pictures that got small.
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