poem: I could die? a footnote?

or: “aesthetic irl

thirty day poetry challenge
day 09– ‘goals‘

the plead tweed coats, manufactured in England or
Bangladesh, and ink-on-fingers, cigarettes. leaves Rattling against
the gothic, heavy windows because what else? /
how do I describe James Joyce
and Virginia Wolf: like reading
emotions. reading the old novels, in cafes
(because what else?); the middle-class, they kept writing
about God, now we write
about gender; I mastrabate under large citation piles
of art history papers, and Monet, and his fucking
avant garde paint

pHD, five years later, the unpopular
opinions: (and yet the office is roasting
me alive, too bad). white six-dollar coffee on white
(fixed) teeth —

the idea of capitalism not as an aberration of human
nature, but as its natural
Outcome; argue me. But I don’t know!
enough history! I should read, at night, instead;
the only thing that rises in me
is the devil’s advocate. Coca-Cola is for girls and
Marx is for boys, or did I view
the film wrong (is that —
possible?) but, I mean, you can’t rewrite
the binary. if you say we are all, or she is,
only the product of Society, aren’t you taking her voice
away too? just like they did
in the golden era — only I miss that gaze
too! and beauty! I miss

what is my paper about this doing piled up
in thousands of other
skeleton papers, call Marina Abramovic have her
clean them, what is the new way to say —
I could die? a footnote?

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