Marx the Poet

3180CFE3-4E8D-4B02-9A66-6F7F22CC3625Marx the Poet

Let’s settle this for good and all.

I want that, too. More than you know.

The title for this has to be clear,
non-misunderstandable, like:

New Poetry by Marx
by William-B,isbane Dick,
the author of Vegetable Poetry

Oh, when I got it, it came definitively, that feeling, that
“they’re coming up with all sorts and dimensions of shit, amidst new lives absconding like turkeys out of avian panic racing to be overtaken by evenings under the stars watching wild boars trot along the baseboards searching for the elephant in your parlour”
sort of thing, you know?

So I put down my pen and said to nobody, “Sam
what is this life of ours but

A Search for Secrets”

Foreword by Sir Francis Younghusbond

“You will be unable to deny the fascination or sincerity of this book,” says The Dispatch

“His work is excellent. It has life, colour, movement: and residents of Europc casually interested in the Eastern science of Yoga-yoga and in its practilioners will find their interest unnagging from the first page to the last.” writes Mona.

“The very embodiment of all that India VI£i<Z·SlVVs.

By William-B,isbane Dick

Attend all the Pre-events
where I discover
how you too can have
an elephant in your parlour!
Or learn who the flexible giant is!
Out of print since 1879.
Now.
New.

A holographic text forgotten decades ago.
Crumpled and used to line packing boxes.
Flattened by the weight of heavy tomes.
Tomes long reviled and scorned, but true.
True as the quantum paradox.

But don’t take my word for it.

This is the message in my brain set:

CLEAN YOUR MIND
EMPTY YOUR POCKETS
AT EVERY TOP-NOTCH SHO
AMERICA GET CLEAN

mede by Authority, and company
fot into trouble bec-use of a
11 t o o
;;’ueen “:;lizabath.


{oung poet Karl ..K arx ‘,
irote to his Jenny,
”Ins:.ired by thy love I stride forth to
defy the ‘tlorld.” was
Later burned ail his to turn
to out “reat peaks of prose.
2fter 068 pages of he ed
n a nHad I the of my friend

The young poet Marx said so.

But don’t take my word for it.

Sam stubbed out his cigar and said,
Don’t worry, I don’t.

.

Text & images by Samuel Santos Dumont for Studio Réal.

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