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| © 2006 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| Nothing I ever wrote could be made to
speak like this. The predictable quiet rot-out of an old lady left alone. Dying. Her yellow-grey panties sitting, insignificant on some nursing home clothesline. And I need some quick re-analysis of loss, some easy assigning of numbers to decay. There shouldn’t be a word like talent when such people get dragged down like this. Off-nights are for accepting that every few years the rebels and standard-bearers switch. And from a wide enough angle all us artists and poets aren’t important, we’re just ridiculous kids. Amen, I think. |
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