amphibi.us

When he wasn’t writing, he was talking about writing. Over
cheap wine with one of his ragged whores, a strange man he
met at a bar, a young girl who tripped over his prose, or the
invasive lens of a camera. He spoke in poetics, his voice rich
in liquid, flowing tones. Poetic without force, without beating
writers blind with form, function, or style. He spoke poetry, lived
poetry. It boiled in his blood

ejaculated from his pen

came on our faces

and pissed on us

like rain.

© Ag Synclair, 2010

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