Poetry / Death of an Art Critic
a road cone in the middle of the street
clearly a statement
a feeling of fiery isolation
set against the post-war-industrial-complex
with its hard-black-surfaces
optimizing mother nature for
your morning meeting
bright orange against stale concrete
hazard signs, klaxons on wooden legs
visible, calculating, targeted
it's modern. Maybe post-modern
maybe pseudo-post-haute-modern
i am flailing in the orb, a cradle of warning
neurons spun in the dazzling orange centrifuge
do we measure art in brush strokes or minutes
can it wake the sleeping dregs
A wall, fresh new and cold
it begs the question
a forced stop and a forced thought
is art without a statement still art
do we relinquish our lives
to gray bricks of business
will a coat of paint fix anything
and if so, pastel or bold?
oh hell, the brakes are jammed
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haha, i like it, you definitely hit the nail on the head, like you i do not know much about art but also like you i know how critics are, i like he examples of art that you used in the poem, it was pretty hysterical, the cone on the street, that was great.
‘Maybe post-modern
maybe pseudo-post-haute-modern’
that was my favorite line, in my head i just pictured the critic trying to figure out what the art was, it was funny.
Good Job!
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