On This, the Day of My Sister’s Wedding
We are generally philanthropists; our own selfish intuition is boiled up under lock and key. We huff the fumes that burn off like sickly residue. Sometimes, we leave a plum to rot, and rot it does; but it can only rot so far. Rot, precious little plum, and live true to aestheticism. The world can’t let you down anymore. We are generally reclining by the fireside, that is, laying in between the trees and nibbling lemongrass. Play your own damn fashion, break your own damn bottle over your own glass eye; throw some tuppence down the well, coma una muneca, and lick the spoon clean. I’ve had my name spelt out in script. Later I’ll run it by the thousands by the lever of my C&P. Look at my laughing, all alone! Well off, for better or worse, in the mouth of my pysche itself. To self is self-fulfilling. In seven years time, what will we have to say for ourselves? Will we be eating cake? Growing old, growing old… or so to me the old men told. You know what they say; Fuck the other side. I’m running wild in my underpants; putting a gun to my head. I’ll leave the incoming calls to the satellite. I’ve my own soliloquies to give, my own books to bind. I’ve a Rimbaud to look up to, and a Rimbaud to look down upon. I’ve a mouthful of spit to lend to his shoes. Camera man, take a photograph of me with my family, so they will have something to remember me by, and take care to keep the mise en scene suggestive. All I’ve to my name is this painting of a bushel of apples and these bowties; here, this one suits you; it brings out your pallor. I’m ennobled, but you knew that already. Have Jacques Villon sketch a portrait of me on my death bed.