Profound Artists Don’t Come Close. Poem by Mary X
Profound Artists Don’t Come Close.
Who knows whom?
Which pencil is mine?
Who sits where?
Stop staring!
This room is
big;
the influence
of twenty or so
pretentious
grains of mustard.
Who knows what?
Who is cliché enough
to be considered
cutting edge?
That man is
woman’s
miscarriage but
a student or
a teacher?
‘Pick up your pencils’.
Begin.
Begin and
begin again.
Who thinks like
a real clockwork
soldier?
Who has the moves
in their brain-waves
to screw-up on the page?
The walls: so
white and fresh,
they haven’t been
accustomed yet.
They will file
our thoughts and
woes, questions
and swearing.
I must concentrate..
con-cen-trate
on
speeches
going on and on but all I can do
is write this
fucking poem
and finger cigarettes
craving a pair of lips.
Mary X.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/22/2024 3:28:00 PM # 1.0.0.1119
‘and what does modern child mistakenly chalk up to the humongous homogenous win column of god—’ is it this you tell me? —the profound artist; i say, yes!