The idea of opposing art, a stick of lumber
confronting a tree. Here entertainment and soirees
refuse the sounds of misery.
A fence hedging out a whole forest.
Art roaming the garden does not mean
the garden is art. How similar,
all faces under tyranny are one.
Everything comes down to power and gold,
the market’s rate of exchange.
For this let’s have more urinals.
The printed van Gogh’s truer than the wheatfield.
No need for shame at missing the small difference.
They, they.
Baudelaire wanted to beat up the poor
and maybe you, for what?
Trade demands a smooth assembly line of concepts
from the ignorant, or a devious plot. No one
hears the nameless wanderer’s cry,
his finger caught in the jaws of the vise.
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