The Contemporary Artist

By Damian Robin

In view, he made a start.
Filling up his cart,
He flogged his horse apart
And made a mess-age: “art.”

With few horse hairs of doubt
He fanned his ego out,
Used skills of nearly “nowt,”
Stored bugs in sauerkraut.

He keeps his heart in kind
And only shows the rind:
Dead life redesigned,
In emp’ror’s clothes, new lined.

He’s made his unknown known.
Some say, in deed, he’s grown.

This is part one of the short series “Three Human Types”

Click here for other poems by Damian Robin.

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