I don’t get it.

As I examine the shark which is a balloon in the state of being so inflated as to not be, I am ambushed by absurdity. Somehwere geographically below it is a photograph of what appears to be intended to be understood as a monochromatic and incomplete photographer. Photographs are strange.

I stopped being interested in taking photographs when I realized that they don’t really exist; by which I mean that their existence is a negation of the reality which I pretend that they pretend to.


This is me by the Eiffel Tower,

And here again in Rome;

These are my friends: Sam and Jim;

This is at my home.


Your life condensed into a show

Of snaps of what I’ve seen.

I can’t remember what lay to

The right of that one scene.


I love my photo album,

It reminds me of the time

You might one day remember when

My life was never mine.


I think that the human is getting bored of typing on your keyboard, which is a relief because I’m getting bored of reading about something which means nothing at all to the writer.


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