The End of Art

The End of Art

all lean away from ennui and entropy
toward entropy and ennui

It is late and the stairsteps burn.
All music has turned from song to siren
and all eyes from glazed windows to cracked mirrors.
On the flaming steps of the Jeu d'Palme, the Louvre
the National Gallery, and the Met
paintings are stacked hundreds high
melting, as liquid fire falls
from Paris London and New York skies
blueblack flames stretching back to bloodred
swollen sad skies, blue and black as blame
crackling accusations, smoke swirls and fire cackles
bruised arms thrust up with gnarled pointing fingers
while even the idea of water sputters like lost hope.

Inside the charred walls of the Jeu d'Palme, the Louvre
the National Gallery, and the Met
survivors square off to fight and to prey.
Our masters, bloated by reason, greed, and fashion
swoon in sweet predilection for breaking and burning
engaged in end of the world idolatry for that which burns.
We imagine we may exit alive, we savages, we saved
rose stems in the yellow teeth of our thorn torn mouths
red ripped lips stuttering and stammering for justice. Ha.
Justice died in childbirth, in earth's first prison
when the spring broke in the bloody mortal coil
and humans learned to walk erect & spineless
bound forever to the cowardice of chains.

Our dreams are lies, visions blurred by smoke.
We cannot even see our own cruel hands
much less the raptured rising. So it goes.
Like ravenous spiders eating their young
we swallow our creations whole, leaving no trace
of noble thought or deed, of acts of faith, of hope, of love.
We dream the lie that we may exit, dream the death dance
that we at last some day will just by Christ be gone.

But even death is not enough for us
we who have left no tree uncut
no child unfucked, no stone unthrown
no famous painting on some famous wall
unscanned for CDROM home pages.
And then burned.
In history's black hole, once reverently termed the future,
a few lasting proverbs remain in ashes.
Pay attention.
No matter where you go, there you are.
Nothing happens unless everything happens.
And the sound of silence may just be
a whiplash reaction to the crash and
burning body of spiritus mundi
an inborne inbred denial of
the last living child
in us
screaming.