Frauds

Its been acknowledged for years that Frei De Fisch is one of Modern Poetry's greatest exponents. When he writes stuff like this, its hard to disagree.
***

Artistic Fraud

Pen. Paper. Sheet. Music.
Ohmygodi'minlove.
Artsy lighting, drunken cameraman.
Monologues, Nomogolues. Curtain, shurtain.
Faked it, as usual.

There are, in the world:
Two kinds of frauds.
Mist thickened and settled
On my drying underwear.

The first sort thrive on
Ununderstandability.
Like the mist that
setted
on my underwear.
Why my underwear?
Why the mist?
Does mist ever
settle? Or does it remain mist until the
Mystery of its mistiness wears off. And then just disappear?
Rohinton, are you listening?

And then there's the second sort.
Oh, the second sort.
The sort that doesn't wear underwear.
Or experience mist.
Oh, the second sort.

Its the funner sort.
The funner sort.
The sort that tells the world they're frauds,
They tell the world they're frauds!
Because the world then thinks,
"Man, this guy might not be one!"
And then another guy says,
"Holy. He's referring to John Traicos' obscure book, Jude!"
"Mother of God. My life's changed! I'm now a right-winger!" says the midfielder.

There it is.
Overworn or underworn underwear -
depending on whether you have

great power (and hence, great responsibility) or not.

***

Also, my laptop's back. Not the data, only a new hard disk.
Further, I must thank She Who Doesn't Want To Be Named for uploading lots of music for me.
Lastly, Happy Deepavali in advance - some travels might keep me busy!