“Nose like a member: something worn: A Tuscan fig, a leather can, or else, A phallus made of putty and slapped on. How should you know that behind All this the old buffoon concealed a fear— And reasonable enough—that he might be An artist after all? Always after this kind Of side-splitting evening, sitting there On a three-legged stool and writing, he Hoped poems might form upon the paper. But no. Dirty stories. The actress and the bishop. The ape and the eunuch. This crapula clung T...o him for many years between his dinners … He sweated at them like a ham unhung. And like the rest of us hoped for The transfigured story or the mantic line Of poetry free from this mortuary smell. For years slept badly—who does not? Took bribes, and drugs, ate far too much and dreamed.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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