Fast now. Feverish to the bell of that mandolin curve. A samurai tattoo across the left shoulder--she burns moments of love like a waxing candle. You know, I don’t see flowers that much anymore; maniacal birds alight on the end of my war flute. But I very much like the dirty Pablo Escobar look of my son’s school photos. Feel the film negative, son! Reverse it out only when the martyrs demand to know what you’ve been doing with all your time. But not for too long. No. Stick with that silver nitrate song. For at any time of life the real question is this: How much can we begin to attempt to hold back, hide from the lens, how much will the ageing body stand? In truth, I’m drawn to this failure addiction like an art exhibition that’s five minutes from opening and I’ve yet to even put brush to canvas. Again and again…
My life is tied up to it like a thirsty dog with no water bowl. I draw the blind on falling Japanese blossoms.