ProLoGUe: On tHe MEaNiNg oF ARt

ProLoGUe: On tHe  MEaNiNg oF ARt

Art is like a bucket of seething hot piss.
It is full of life, impurity, emotion, Candor, disease, sexual innuendo.
It steams, boils, burns, and often stinks. You can see your reflection in it
And it is not always pretty. If you knock it over, You might admire its beauty
As it captures the light of the moon And the crazed colors of the night
As it scurries along the cobblestone streets
Before you decide whether to quickly quietly move along
Or obey the screams of the constable running towards you
To “clean up your filthy perverted mess!”
You think your bucket of piss is art? |
Only when I know it is.

The constable is often wrong. 

I took a photograph of the constable yelling his obscenities at us in the moonlight.
Instantly, my reality became art. It was beautiful. My friend
Tara painted the scene in oil. The colors of her night street were magical.
And its truth became art again. When, with word,
I poignantly described the scene and events in most accurate detail,
capturing the true essence of the event and it’s emotion on paper.
My editor deemed it too offensive.
And the truth became art no more.

The constable is often wrong.

Or is she?

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