I want to explode
into a million pieces;
become unrecognizable -
a Pollock painting on the canvas wall
yes, darling, I want to be artistic.
A Pollock painting on a canvas wall.
When I am vibrating in place
like a well-timed explosive,
I want you to be the trigger
and destroy me, for me:
I want you to rip me apart,
burst me open,
shoot an arrow into my nuclear core;
split the atoms,
detonate me remotely,
report it in the tabloid headlines,
with just a dash of sensationalism:
“poet found dead! poet found dead!”.
Even our artless deeds, are a form of art.
Even our artless deeds, are a form of art.
They’re all pretty meaningless unless we pretend they’re art.
Even our artless deeds, are a form of art.
Even our artless deeds, are a form of art.
I want to be the subject of post-mortem poems
and writing in remembrance –
yes, I want to become eternal.
I want to be art.
I want to be art.
I want to become eternal.
I want to be art.
I want to be art.
I want to be art.
I want to be art.
I want to be art.
I want to be