They say a pen to prose, and a heart to poetry,
But then why beget consciousness from consciousness, I ask
Uncertain. I am sure though that were the coroner to plunge his arm
Deep into the viscous fluid of my thoughts, he would grope about at nothing,
As one does in dark, deep waters, where the light does not reach,
And molecule on molecule begets an ocean, alone in its own right.
It is in this semblance of thought that I exist,
Like many others. I reach into my gullet and pull out of me my guts,
Spew blood on a canvas, and call it ‘art’. Then I hang it out my window,
And call to passers-by to ignore it, consider it part of the façade that makes,
This building worth calling my home. Yet I will peer down through
The slit in the curtains to see if any man will stop to critique my misgivings.
The pluripotency of this self-analysis is all,
That I have to offer meagrely to this world. As the icons of mad girls,
Stare down at me and whisper in forlorn amnesty, that I too shall fall
And the streets will watch me fall, applaud as I hit the ground smashed into pieces,
Then proceed to sift through my remains holding up fragments to light,
In an attempt to colour their psychoses in a shade more appealing to wear.
What of my life then, do I create or cease?
Do I create silently but cease in a loud flourish only to hold their stares briefly?
Or do I do just the opposite and weave webs of words around my own enigmas,
And throw the papers onto the avenue, so a few pedestrians can disregard with certainty,
These pamphlets attempting to be ‘art’? What then if I do not drop to the ground,
My ‘art’ or my body, or that if falling is a given, neither makes a noticeable sound?
If these are the necrotic mutations of left-over thought, I will let them be.
They serve their purpose, beget consciousness from consciousness.
And in such goal I find no discrepancy,Between the fall of my body or my ‘art’.