The Poet John Ashbery Reads Hemingway

Sometimes the Old Man lost the bawdy odor. He was a luridly large fish, fast and ripped. His back was pimpled with sky colors, mostly blue though.

His maw was the thing. It opened and closed like vicious theater curtains. That was it, curtains.

You didn’t have to see much of that to think of Egyptian pyramids or fingers running everywhere with long nails sloshing the water around.

The Old Man played his autoharp, waiting as he watched the lurid lump come closer. Waiting was right up his alley.

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