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.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment