The Death of Art

By V Curran

I don't enjoy art anymore. It bores me.

Uninspired pieces by An uninspired corporation by Uninspired people.

Symbols mean nothing when they Symbolize some experience That you won't have, A book about a life you won't live, Cosplaying as a starving artist, Satirizing what you create you lazy, Pathetic, money chasing

Corporate.

An artist is like a child. In constant need of attention, Affection at every junktion. This means this and that means that.

How about you shut up?

Your ink splat in the corner is a mistake, There is no shame in it,

There is shame in not taking blame.

You rhyme on time and say it Is prime not crime, A rhyme for no reason, A crime against art.

And you cover it up like a child from their mom. You say it has meaning. Child. Oh!

You know that the scallop was made in rice, Cooked for forty five?

A little deep dive into the cooking experience, You deconstruct their art.

Rip it down, destroy the beauty. They shouldn't care, they made the food. A seven out of ten.

A seven out of ten.

Publish your private critique, Make a public publish.

You have lost what you love Like a lover cheating you cheat yourself.

Self critical but not enough. Hold yourself to your standards, you Critic.

Why am I writing this?

I am making a piece of art.

I am criticizing myself.

I am falling into the self referential pit. The very thing I am writing about here

I fear that I may be perceived as pretentious.

I am.

Me acknowledging it makes it better right?

No, I know it doesn't.

Is it fun that I am referencing myself again, And again, And again?

I get a kick out of it.

I am so smart because I recognize art as a medium, Over and over I understand myself. It makes me feel so much worse; The lowest form of art is meta.

Shut up and do my job.

I want a piece of art without art. Meta.

A crying man, stabbed in a hallway, a man smiling over him in awe. The man looks happy, he is enjoying the art he just made, art no one else will ever understand. There was no reason, no inspiration, he stabbed me just to watch me die. This random red-lined apartment complex will enjoy another death. Maybe a serial killer is the purest artist.