Better Put It Down

You’ve worked on it all night: you don’t
much want to any more. It won’t
kerfuffle into breathing life.
You’ve pricked it with a knife,

you’ve sung it Judy Garland songs,
confessed your darkest wrongs –
as if to offer you atonement
would jumpstart it, cease postponement

of the sweet experiment of sentience
to which you’d subject it. Vengeance
maybe isn’t called for (yet), but it occurs
to you you’d like to smash it till it blurs

back to the blob-puddle
that you made it from. The muddle
of it wounds your pride and stings
your sense of competence. It wrings

an artist’s heart
to think how little art
appears to care for its conceiver!
Blasted dummy – numb deceiver!

Better put it down.
Perhaps it will come round.


 
 
 
.