Spun out on pills and
Not even the good kind,
The normality begins its daily take
Take
Take.
I flick what’s left of my soul into the coin tray
The fragments clang and echo sharply as they hit the metal and
I’m waived on through the gate - into tomorrow.
And the cars are just squares of metals driven by
Squares of flesh.
Even the trees are fabrication,
A child’s blocks of brown and green plastic
Desperate to stagger the onset of human existence.
And none of this is art.
None of this destroys or creates -
Flames out the life or drowns the stomach in nourishing milk.
But then there is the art,
And even that is not really
Art.
The paintings
The photographs,
The words and language.
All failures at arts great game.
The sculpture sometimes exceeds the limit -
The stone and bronze and marble and
Mirrored steel,
That intrude like a wrecking ball.
Causing them to veer off course
Out of the grid lines,
To panic and eventually flee.
The real art comes from the prosthetics
And blood capsules,
And putty and scalpel and resin,
And exploding heart and brain,
The flying eye and chainsaw,
The scream - the trickle.
The real art resides deep within exaggerated death.
And all of this done with a smile,
With cameras and scripts and
The hot blonde who is always the first to
Go.
