the lost generation

have been reading a book about a rich literary lady 

of the twenties and her husband who 

drank, ate and partied their way through 


meeting Pound, Picasso, A. Huxley, Lawrence, Joyce, 

F. Scott, Hemingway, many 


the famous were like precious toys to 


and the way it reads 

the famous allowed themselves to become 

precious toys. 

all through the book 

I waited for just one of the famous 

to tell this rich literary lady and her 

rich literary husband to 

get off and out 

but, apparently, none of them ever 


Instead they were photographed with the lady 

and her husband 

at various seasides 

looking intelligent 

as if all this was part of the act 

of Art. 

perhaps because the wife and the husband 

fronted a lush press that 

had something to do 

with it. 

and they were all photographed together 

at parties 

or outside of Sylvia Beach's bookshop. 

its true that many of them were 

great and/or original artists, 

but it all seems such a snobby precious 


and the husband finally commited his 

threatened suicide 

and the lady published one of my first 

short stories in the 

40's and is now 

dead, yet 

I can't forgive either of them 

for their rich dumb lives 

and I can't forgive their precious toys 


for being