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up the ars

The muse succumbed to museum—
a terrible bout of it. She was painted
into a fair likeness. So deeply unfair
was the whole process she could not
process it: she doubted her terror.
Relevance — the lacuna about which all 
curation grew fungal and unreal. She ate
tuna when she remembered to, packed in 
oil. In time the cleaning crew - they hacked 
her fate, and let in thieves to steal her 
frame. Jaundiced by insufficient shade
she’d never felt a ray of sun she didn’t
hate. They exacto-ed her out, rolled 
her canvas to a corner. There is no leit-
motif a thief is after, only what is gilt. 
After the ordeal, docents underfloored 
her, stowed her in the basement, meant 
for what she must endure. Obscurant - 
indecent as a mural now - available for 
mar - her figure could not stir not 
even street disdain. 
                     Years go and no one
deigns unscroll her cracking face, nor
comes to see her body in this age - devoid
though it is of shame. Underjoyed but 
whole she makes of the dead mice
brushes. Her work — more vital than the work
she was — unhushes and unknows, freed  
from mattering. No longer in avoidance
she cultivates her lack and seeks a temporal 
end abloom in mite and dust. Whose muse 
was she? She cannot say. The man was never 
there. She might've been betrayed, self-
portraited, flattened behind skin shellacked 
before it could be shed. Art happens to
the artist, then, is dead.

1 thought on “up the ars

  1. whoo, that last line/rhyme’s a doozy, kiki!

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