.
Been a while since I have had a
thing to do with you,
you keyboard with your aptitude
for prodding me to skew
my facts of life – you implements
of color and outlining
and chiaroscuro and perspective,
all the mining
.
tools you’ve said that I must
use – the digging down to ore
I’m told at your insistence is
my only route to finding more
than I’ll have found before in
drawing - tools I’ll need
to enter into and enlarge my vision,
and to weed
.
out all the vapid and
extraneous misfires that so far
have made up the great bulk of
what I’m told by others mar
my name as artist (whatever “artist”
could in my case mean)
and thus invite me to
self-pitying attack: where I demean
.
myself for all the shortcomings
that constitute the lack
in me of being able to face
truth: this Kettelhack’s a hack.
Not to mention the most mortal sin
I have committed:
a narcissism so immense no
other view can be admitted.
.
Oddly though, how from my
self-disgust, my feeble facture,
intellectual inadequacies and the
rest of what effect a fracture
of my me-me-me, I experience this
self-consuming pleasure.
Its lovely endless repercussions
are a great dark pleasure.
.
But even that, of course, is
just another deadly dull cliché.
Cliché, apparently, has long
been my established way.
Have I done sufficient justice
to the braying and self-flaying
that this course requires? ‘Life:
Lessons in Role-Playing.’
.
.
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