Artur

I feel like Marcel Duchamp, and walk with weary gait, scent of my cologne is damp, bring cognac to my table, orange dishes by measured paces, feed my enormous frame, not a picture to look upon, swaying like a knave, singing out life is done, unshaven waiters, in gas fired winter cafe's, often see me faint, women before me claim, oily buttered hair on trains, my hundred ways, paintings are what i nail, museums have a lonely grace, my uncertain forays, I stare from the canvas, that's really my fame, the world my caravan, to master my name.