He started by staring at the blackbody. Naked, Lying over a yoga ball, chain-smoking Apollo 13, cradling cannabis and the nocturnal street sounds, as if he was the objectification to a lifeless dream.
He had to suppose that quanta of action were at the foundation of energy multiplied by time
But time it awaits for no one.
Still this homage to his muse, who comes out on stage, with the moon as a backdrop, doll-faced, scantily laced, chased by the ambition of lackluster kings and thieves
Is the catalyst for him to conceive, but a notion to leave this maturity, like Alice and her potion, shrinking away to obscurity.
Tonight, she smiles at him, dances for him, and intones upon his delight.
“You are the blight encrusted in a toilet bowl, whose kiss is road kill.
Your breath is smog, the brush of your hand stains pleasure.
Leeches flit in the corner of your eyes, boring at what sighs there.
Cadaver dogs bloat and fatten by the jowl.
The nameless gorges on your lowermost bowel, until it sags in rupture.
Nevertheless, your heart, your brain, and your foreskin are saved for sundry artifacts in memoriam, to what could have been: an alert artist chasing his dream.”
Through her, his art is spent.
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