366 Poems: August 14th, 2016

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

so alive?


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