A revenge on painters

With a rubber

Shade off the dark

Soothe the light; tone the reds down on the picture.

Let the whale in the back

Play its old Chinese tunes

They will dance west,

Golden shadows on the waves of the night,

Till they spare drowned on blue sea grass

Carefully ranked round a sweet-eyed scarecrow.

Inside the whale, paint what you need

Hide what you fear

Take place in an armchair of guts

They’re so sweet in fresh whales,

And have a glass of this hoarse sugared wine

So expensive –

But those who can afford

A living in a whale don’t care about money.

Then choose one of the books,

That one, with shells on the worn out jacket

And pick the letters out

Random

To read

A foul bunch of rambling

(The problem with the whales is that they really stink

As much as a pack of dead dogs)

And, how could one paint this

Without using a word?

Comments

[marie.]

guido, I've always thought writing without words is the next step for you...

[Kiki]

Les peintres ont la térébenthine et les écrivains l'essence.. ;) (fait chier, marche pas dans l'autre sens, pourquoi qu'y disent pas "essence of", les English, plutôt que oil of turpentine, ça me coupe mon effect, shit, pas le temps de penser à un autre!) Superbe, Moby...euh...Marie, ta polésie!

[guido]

I remember these lines, and I love this poem end; and it'ld be the top, to write without words... ciao