I’ll Huff and I’ll Puff
He wants to get in in the worst way.
The door of my cottage isn’t really
narrow, but he’s wearing
this allegorical backpack
of which he is completely unaware.
Bang. Bang. I’m glad I made
the lintel and load-bearing walls
so sturdy. The backpack
(it must be filled with allegorical
weights) is at odds
with his missionary/undertaker
style. Though he started
with wheedling soulfulness, he now shouts
vile animadversions
concerning my lifestyle, fetishization
(I’m paraphrasing) of Reason,
the elitist things
he sees from the door but can’t reach.
I point out that frustration
and anger have made him forget
whatever allegorical good
he’s selling. I perceive
(I tell him) a connection
between his efforts and mine,
in my art; he should be glad
to have inspired such identification.
There is no autonomous
*time in my work; day and night are effects
of the will. The more, incoherent now,
he strikes the outside wall, the more
tasteful my room becomes, while the city
I see over the backpack
dissolves into utter darkness.
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