Rotting Art is Best Observed While Drinking Coffee. Any Stimulant Really. Really?


In various public domains art renders the air in decadence posing stone crafted fingers to mimic thought and folly. Public scrutiny describes a chipped toe, or split eyelid cemented in permanent twitch, as the basis for patterned judgment. What began as beautiful copper matures to green, the purpose of styled liberty burns inside a hollow torch. The assurance of history is an assurance of failure, of expiration, altruistic death. We marvel at decay for as long as art rots it’s proper. To adore bread crumbs would be silly unless the crumbs were remnants from the last sandwich; then they’d placed on display with a fee attached to observe living history. Recycling culture for profit.

To pose inside a memory, I gesture to the 4th grade boy lectured on the importance of respecting fermented organs donated to science. I held a slice of brain like it was a slice of pizza. I should’ve cared for the carcass. Now I wonder what memories dead pupils contain. I wonder what visions a captured soul characterizes.

How do eyes of ore whimper to a crowd?
How should stone lips gesture to achieve solitude?
Break on.
Break on.

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