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Portrait of a Young Man as The Artist
abmann
abmann
Basquiat
It's plain that chalk
is only as thick
as honey poured on a table;
sculpt into pricelessness.
We see african drums
interlaced with sexual
exploits fit only
for Japanese Hentai games; it is
how everyone feels.

Carnality becomes a vogue way of life
replacing sensual pride
in shopping. We are happier
listening to a bum
locked into Gettysburg
insane only in medical texts
written at the time
homosexuality was disorder.
The other option,
stealing traffic signs
defaced by replicated hands
is only appealing
to grifters who play cards
with dogs.

Mother talk after a chalk outline
and copper turned green with urine.
He is only a good son
as long as he is laced tightly
by waitresses hiding liquor bottles.
The bottle is comfort offsides - away
from gridlock on the side furthest
from the street as chivalry deems.
Drinking espresso in basement
while debating spectral choices
is the defining moment
in a life evaporating
like Andy Warhol's flashbulb.

Current Mood: hot hot

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