3d • General discussion
"Black Market"
Light the fire, fan the flames, and rake me through the coals
then take me to the market where the artists sell their souls.
Each and every frame is gilded and the canvas hides the cost,
so they can hang you in the gallery to display what is lost.
Nine winters at the easel and the mailbox never sings,
just a stack of polite passings official letters bring.
The appraisals have learned my name and the sculpture's gotten proud
The syllables echo through your chapel even if they're not spoken aloud.
I watch the coronated smiling from their covers on the stand,
every brushstroke taking orders, every anthem made as planned.
A whisper starts its journey through the very marrow of my spine:
"Paint the water how the market wants, who cares about the wine?"
Maybe hunger is a compass that's been pointing at the fault,
perhaps genius is in obedience to it's pension in the vault.
Lose trust that all my burning mattered like a candle to the sun
for if art is what the buyer says, then mine was never one.
No. The fire wasn't lit for them and hunger will never be proof
a cathedral's still a cathedral with a hole punched in the roof.
Let the market crown its own reflection and all the copied carbon stay gold:
I would rather starve as bottled lightning than be fattened, framed, and sold.
kbm.
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"Black Market"
