képek, betűk

from among our pages, they emerge again
the flare-up, the hero, the myth
they march on, endlessly boringly
as if you were walking through an art biennial
the twentieth piece of kitsch, the hundredth cliché
the thousandth imitation of earlier imitations
the eightieth looped video
and then, by chance, you were to stumble upon a drawing
just like that, somewhere on an ordinary wall
there would be a single line on it
beneath it, a name, a date
a line which someone, somewhere
drew after some kind of true experience
let's say they had been hungry, or had no money
and drew it out of anger, or
perhaps they had been beaten, betrayed
and in their pain carved a line into the paper —
and did not post the image immediately
in a social media
was not moved by themselves
did not feel a tingling satisfaction 
at their own originality; the drawing
had just been lying there somewhere
until someone found it
there was no self-interest behind it, no marketing —
it would be moving — almost unimaginable
like a quiet tale about light in hell
where the devils liquefy the light
rub it onto their arses
and, farting into that liquid, blow bubbles
and take delight in it
how beautifully colourful they are
how colourful
how clever