549. THE SEPTEMBRISTS

THE SEPTEMBRISTS
(the gallery plot)
Art and speed, speed and art, somehow put
together at Lothario's pace : the gliding slime
that comes from oil, the running colors, the
certainly-not-frugal drip of a cow-painter's
wild brush. We make for images like these,
while broiling in flaming heats, under broad
shades and wide-brimmed hats. Hipsters,
flying low so as to dip to the tips of trees.
-
A crippled reporter enters, dragging a leg.
Trying to speak, she talks instead with a
pencil piercing her forehead. 'Concept
Art I had no conception of,' she writes
as the red blood slowly trickles, forming
a crimson lick around her lips. 'I'm not
famous yet, y'see, but I soon will be.'
-
That was the young artist speaking.
He wants to buy the gallery, if he can.
'Easier that way to sell my work -
just that and nothing more.'
-
Here's the baker. Here's the
maid. Here's the clarion
clapper. Here's the late
artist, so recently
deceased.