A love letter to theory

When the intellect (good-looker
him, he even has an accent
he bought) is absurd,
you know your book is good.
When the critic (shoddy
as always, the reek of bad
habits like garb) makes
your book for you,
you know the art is fine.
When the drunk (the most
perfected gentleman of all,
even in his seizure) reads
your book from first to last,
you know you’ve mixed
all the pages well,
stirred in a little formula
then undressed it how
you would all your husbands.


~ by Jeremy on June 5, 2013.

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