The light at the end of the gutter

The romance of the artist—
you have to live unfashionably
and die fashionably to survive—
a janitor weaves whole populations
in his spare time, a heroin addict
says we are all better off deaf,
spared the halter of civilization—
directions and provocations—
success is sickly—gutters—
and gutters too are galleries:
you must ruin yourself, deluded boy,
before anyone respects you—
how mythical, how false the preachments
of dying artists in the muck—
too thick a talent for acting
and not enough expressed—
this saint of a man: Baudelaire
died, Wilde died, De Quincey died—
how very careless culture is
when it too unhinges boys
who die sillier deaths than usual—


~ by Jeremy on June 20, 2013.

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