The artist craft-walking,
floorboard’s boyish roughness is
looking downstairs
at autodidactic censorship,
stargazing
at the ceiling’s glowing stickers.
Ostensible flashlight ponders the authentic beam,
shining only in the night:
black bloodstream of chaos: death’s mother,
a rich Amsterdam-prostitute.
Her vagina is immortality. “My life for an afterlife?”
inquires the artist.
Her son will kill him anyway, eventually.
His fornication is a gamble. The alternative?
(Celibacy of chaos)
The bed’s priesthood worships possible fame
in life, unfortunately.
Just understand the partaker/spectator-paradox:
everyone’s chasing celebrity to be watched by everyone.
There is no stage but capitalism.
There is no church but Hollywood.
To write? Or to think in the dark? That is not the question.