Poem 175: My Greatest Masterpiece
Bound, gagged, gun to my face . I'm to write a poem using my own blood. If it's good, they'll let me go. If I don't, I try again tomorrow. This was what I wrote. Bloodbath, bloodbath, how I love thee. Paintings made with a canvas of urine, and sculptures of feces. And poems written via semen, not blood, for they are very similar substances in composition. You seek to punish me by making me put my literal blood sweat and tears into work, but you've just cut out the middle man. By which of course, I mean you literally cut him out. His internal organs are spilled out on the floor, and you could perhaps make arts and crafts out of it. Oh, but you don't want to get your hands dirty. You've only ever spilled your guts metaphorically and not literally. You see, death is no threat when I'm already dead inside. I could literally shoot myself in the foot and it would be a better work of art than you can ever create. That's why you need me. You're disgusted by me, because you hate what you see, but you also need it. For my own existence is the closest thing to the embodiment of humanity at its purest. Every horrific act of depravity and barbarism you've ever seen is something uniquely human. Everything we claim to be art is simply a mere imitation of humanity at is worst. People claim that art is something that makes you feel, in that case, you will be my greatest masterpiece yet.
