In errant social commentary,
On how we’ve supposedly decayed;
In that over obvious irony,
The minimalist complains:
“This is what art is reduced to?”
Painting three lines on the wall.
I’ll paint four,
Be worth more.
Or struggling,
Listen to the poetically illiterate
As they hopelessly alliterate
Their failed formulaic floundering.
That can of soup needs no understanding
Just open the damn thing up.
I think I get it now
But what’s the point?
Is it lost in the endless feedback loop,
Or jammed sideways, stuck,
Just short of the pinnacle of art?