That he’s eschewed habiliments –
that he, prevailingly, is blue
as well as nude – that he plays
Chopin, Franck and Bach etudes
with tiny pinkish hands, his mood
subdued to shrewd insouciance:
an un-abating offhand attitude – that
little pyramidal horns of hair adorn his
pate, and drooping straight mustachios
extrude like Fu Manchu’s – isn’t news.
Look: he’ll profligately give you views.
One wonders, though, what
unseen light or fright ignites
his fuse. What does he do because
he has to? What does he choose?
.
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