A Is For Art A Conversation With The Muse Poem by Andy Brookes

'Don't you hate art with a capital A? ' asks the Muse
'Precious.' she adds 'Anything that needs to be capitalised, is but empty air. Unmade beds or calves in formaldehyde, I'd rather have the stink rotten flesh'

'But I say the Muses are Art with a capital A.'

'Au contraire mon ami.' she snaps back
'Art with a capital A is like the Emperors New Clothes.'

'Oh I say.' not understanding.

'Empty spaces.' she elucidates 'for empty heads, a critics critique.' she adds mysteriously. Glory for the trend setters.

'You are a snob.' I fire back

'That I am but of the inverted variety.' She smiles her Mona Lisa smile.

'There you go imitating Art with a capital A.' I reply rather smugly

'No.' She crows. 'Art imitates me for as you know I am Art.'

A circular argument I think but before I can reply she has gone, traitorously, to some other more worthy head than mine.

I finish my red wine, time for bed I think.