Artobiography – the self-exposed.
Personal revelation on display:
persuasions, curiosities disclosed;
individual leanings that swing and sway.
Privacy – an open exhibition.
Voyeurs at large, a see-through medium,
en masse titillation; imposition;
pastiche motif; pretensions on parade.
A synthetic construct, superficial,
skin-deep patina, costume masquerade;
disguised reality – artificial.
. What of art that it adores expression,
. and yet, so crudely ignores discretion?
To the reader: Exhibitionism or exhibitionist – an empty distinction. The expose of self as art. The narcissist, an introspective voyeur on public display. Made naked for self-amusement. Inside-outside. Flesh-coloured drapes on see-through windows. Shock therapist using auto-simulation as creative medium; seminal concept becomes revelation. Artobiography – a crude craft on revealing canvas.
To the poet: Inspiration for this sonnet was a documentary on avant-garde art. The various vignettes portrayed a series of self-absorbed indulgences. Confusion over purpose was laid bear. A naked clambering for notoriety; easily achieved through public shock. Nothing more than a sideshow curiosity laying claim to creative space. As a writer, I can appeal to a reader’s instinct for novelty… the forbidden and perverse are easy grabs.
All days the same, patterned on each other;
templates, just repeated in shape and size.
How to make a difference; one from t’other?
Make love to the morning, feel her surprise.
Love’s rhythm is what sets two days apart.
Begins the flow of motion that prepares
your mind for nuance; gives the day fresh start.
When borne of love, no other compares…
for sameness is overcome. With love’s touch
the subtlety of difference is revealed,
feelings are massaged, caressed, and as such
become a new day; fresh as a green field.
. No two kisses need ever be the same,
. with love’s rebirth, each day takes a new frame.
To the reader: Love is a refreshing agent. Its confirmation reassures and resets relationships. The natural flow of day and night cycles through the rhythm of life and love responds in kind. We are bound to love’s attraction; drawn to its affection; captured by its charm; and seduced by its sensitivity. Those delicious endorphins have us craving a new day’s kiss.
To the poet: A poem about sex doesn’t need to be lewd, crude or rude. The power of suggestion is all that’s required. As with all good art, a good poem needs to leave room for interpretation. To leave no room for suggestive imagination would mark the erotic intent as nothing more than pornographic titillation. By the splendours of a new day sameness is overcome.