They told me there were clouds
gathering in my pelvis,
a darkening in the bone;
When they found it, I remember thinking
how pretty it looked-
like a wine stain spreading across a tablecloth
like a work of art hiding in the wrong place,
or a final bar of music ringing out through my tendons.
but later, when everything else had dropped away,
I remember thinking about what some lecturer
had said to me once: art is never about art
art is about life.
And I remember realising
how stupid he really was.
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Art's about both, all of the time. Raw obvs.
ReplyDeleteGood poem. Did like. Would read again.