Thursday, February 9, 2017

Back to the Factory

The artist is a freak –
a warrior with mutant ears
(the things he hears!) – his art’s a helpless
creature in his care. Neither is nor ever will
become aware of what the other does,

will do, will be or was; it’s not
within the slippery circumference
of what they guess are their intentions
to know more than that they stumble through
the untoward manufacture of a wonder,

when it happens, which is rare,
all done in an unconscious dark
and usually wounding art, though sometimes
not. When not, they’ve a pot to piss in!
They release their flow, and systems go,

and art and artist start to breathe a different air.
They know that something’s there;
though don’t know what. Soon art becomes
an invalid again, and artist numbs himself
for war, and when as usual he can’t find any

enemy, he mumbles to the scrawny blue thing
parked and hung upon his torso
and refractorily stumbles with it
through, into, a new unconscious dark –
back to the factory.


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