art is the soul shitting

we
can sit for hours
feeling innards stir
push, strain for eternity
yielding few reluctant pieces
perhaps some hidden genius

but
urge to expel persists
as though more waits
sitting in your gut
some load ageing inside
anticipating it’s time to crown

if
we wait until
that beautiful moment
when inspiration arrives
(with your morning coffee,
or that last cigarette)

you
open with anticipation
in a silent scream
barely making it in time
hardly a chance to settle
before birth is given

a
perfect flood
pours out of you
free, effortless
inner caverns relax
evacuation is done

the
gratifying moment
to look upon it
what has come from you
think of all you absorbed
to create such a thing

now
marvel at it
revel in achievement
then do away with it
cast it off to the world
apart from you forever

we
knew it then, and
it remains true: art is shit
starting in the world
digested through us
and sent back anew