Bisecting the point that bisects
the line of flight of a witch flying on a blue plastic broom saying she is used
to flying on vacuum cleaners, power turned on – buttons pushed down whirring
through clouds of gray and blue wishing to be wearing a long robe in green clearly
indicating rain that is yet to be also at the same time the rain that was that
had flown on the ground like a river after falling black like rivulets of ink
from a pen that they associate with a fountain and a nib in gold with a split
edge writing zero point seven millimeters thickness stories and lines of songs
that promise to stay forever with magic ink that is invisible to the malicious eye
bad intentions box of choices for you to choose from after throwing away
garlands of rose and leaves of the banyan wound around their legs and the trunk
of an elephant thick long tusk reflecting on the calm surface of water inside
every deep well while spiders are busy weaving cobwebs riding bicycles in drawn
circles of evolution in the sky blue shades of dark gray after Picasso said
something mean about Gertrude Stein’s ink-stained fingers busy scribbling little
meaningless passages in the notebook she keeps in her pocket inside formalin words
floating in a jar dead or alive with meanings about objects food rooms and imaginary
numbers that talk not about you or me or them but all that they talk about all
the time are about one’s own self, first-person singular in one letter – no letter
more, nothing less and definitely not a penny more not a pound less
Museums Are Zoos For Artists
1 day ago
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