Art About Art

Art about art almost always

amounts to esthetical fart –

pretending the artist

is not just descending again

and again into orifices

where the moon don’t shine

and the view ain’t sublime.

But a creature of mine just

barged in to be art-about-art,

whatever the crime:

he’s crept surreptitiously

onto scratch paper, so drawn

by its splotch and its line

and its strange new purview,

he’s insisted that I now permit

him to snatch in its frame

his eight minutes of fame.

As usual, I will put up with my

shame, be a slave to this game,

and a creature’s to blame.

.