Litkicks Message Board Archive

Dark Rooms and the cool ground's hips.

Posted to Poetry

Preamble :Began as a rant

In a day's foresight I grew old
I never existed
I as ghost encaptured by thought and gain
A friend will be over later with
A bottle of wine
His new ideas and drawings.

The dog is asleep
Laying at the far end of the kitchen
I sip coffee
Sit in the dark
My cigarette is company
I may or may not have children
or a pretty wife , they may be there.

I smirk at my notebooks
Laugh at the diaries of Thomas Mann
My death wont be read
I never existed.

What then makes me an artist
Or let alone a man as an artist
I cannot play chess or collect butterflies
Like Nabokov.

There are no artists
There is only the dark room
And the even still
Darker rooms than that.