Stars of red, white, and silver covered Nijinxi’s black
velvet pants. He stood on his hands and
urinated into the toilet.
“All too
easy,” he declared, falling onto his bare feet.
His shirt, which had gathered around his wiry shoulders during the
exhibition, now fell back into place, revealing the picture of Jean Dubuffet on
its front.
“Who is
that?” Bocamel asked, pointing to the image of the founder of Art Brut.
Nijinxi
flushed the toilet with a graceful tap of his slender fingers, nails painted
black. His penis, but a coracle compared
to the ocean liners that plied the currents of the sexual sea, withdrew into
the darkness to hide, writing poetry about flightless automatic birds that
stalked the disused soccer field behind the library.
“You
Americans with your ‘soccer,’” Lord Ewing sneered. “The rest of the world calls it football.”
All too
true.
If only
there was a literary equivalent to Art Brut.
