Art is dead.

i've walked the rotting dirt path
between the ivory towers
of its rib-cage
arching up into the sky
like the hands of another skeleton
long before
                   long beneath
this rotting ground
reaching up through the earth
fingers like stalks of pungent rot
            jaundiced
   white
                   unchangeable
      curving
                    bending
into the hot…
     hot…
sun
these forbidding ivory bones
grasping at flowers
where the soil is stagnant.

Art is dead.

these ivory poles are too slick to climb and the ground
is littered with miniature frames
of those who dared to scale
and tumbled
skin peeling from the tiny replicas
these towers are not pedestals
but the last sharp barbs of irony
                                                            from beyond

while the behemoth carcass
sinks
           into the ground
rotting flesh becomes the fertilizer
where new poisonous flowers bloom
ill-gotten pollen clinging to skin
from lecherous encounters
     with Pistils and Stamens

POWDER IN THE AIR!
POWDER IN THE AIR!
PETALS PULL US IN!

fame
                       immortality
       respect
                                individuality

a toxic floral gas descends upon the landscape

Art is dead.

Art is dead.

Art is dead.

And so are we.