Death By Art
Dante is so full of shit. I was sitting on a bench on Tooting Bec Common, softly weeping, and a man claiming to be the greek poet Virgil urged me to follow him behind a hedge. He proceeded to try and entice me into joining an obvious pyramid scheme involving the sale of collapsible spoons.
The most poetic thing that has ever happened to me is when the woman I loved caught consumption from a moldy copy of Keats’ Hyperion. I know this isn’t actually possible, but that’s what makes it so poetic.
They say there are only two real routes to immortality, your children or your art. I’m going to have my children framed.
