By Benjamin Aldes Wurgaft
there is no way around the fact that kunst sounds
like the painfully slow sucking in of breath
before the villain blows the hero away
with a little pistol,
hidden in the boot, unsuspected after
the exchange of blows, the effort
to wrestle meaning out of vision, saving
the lady called “beauty,”
avoiding that temptress “the sublime.”
of course this is my opinion; some think differently.
they would, the old bastards.
I’m glad they’re gone.