Cummings wrote some wonderful stuff
about the prostitutes of France.
painting them remarkably deteriorated and
painfully beautiful;
the fragrance of nightly breath enough
to usher tears into existence.
so many,
I’ve painted and/or sketched words
about were this.
more we’ve made great who
were not, some
lent away greatness, now
insignificant.
never have I been a whole lover.
never have I known to give at such a level.
only that I have been the prostitute
in some sense of sense;
never the sexual admirer
that was E.E. Cummings.
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 