The Immaculate Conception Of Tracey Emin Poem by Alex Hamilton
The Immaculate Conception Of Tracey Emin
Her mother sat like Budha in the igloo tent:
Womb-like walls of canvas,
Pure and untouched by
Crudely stitched names of men or
Exaggerated erections
As scribbled by pubescent boys.
Creative semen never touched a brilliant egg.
No art was conceived, born nor developed.
Barren bleakness gave
Bawdy beds and
Kitsch to Uncle Colin.
No birth of a great New Vision.
Just ill-conceived misconceptions.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/26/2024 7:23:43 AM # 1.0.0.1119
...............Ouch!