Art is Dead
Art is dead, and we have killed it–
oh, how the Shakespeare’s hate to admit it!
How Roman stones were pulverized
and slashed and strewn by Caesar’s knives
then packed and shipped, ten pence per box.
Oh! How the marveled dead horse walks
along the bricks of placid plays
all each the same as yesterday’s,
the golds and emeralds of the might
who perhaps got it slightly right.
Oh how I wish I had the key
to the enigma of originality
and lived a million years before
when poems were not such a bore–
or novels, movies, epic plights,
paintings and songs– thinking outright!
This instant world! Where vision dies,
but then again, has art ever been