by James Payne

It doesn’t feel right.

Are artists fond of the term “interrogate”
because they know it’s torture?

I just read “preparator” as “perpetrator.”

“Paint” as “pain.”

“Curator” as “carceral.”

Think about it:

White walls.
White wine.

White people.

I mean, is Capitalism Art’s friend, enemy, or frenemy?

Do Art and Capitalism occasionally meet up for drinks,
or do they wake up everyday and grab coffee?

Do Art and Capitalism co-care a dog?
Who gets it in a split?

Marry, Fuck, Kill: Capitalism.

Kill.

Marry, Fuck, Kill: Art.

Kill, but after fucking.

Or maybe marry first, just
for the gifts; to say “I do,” then “I did.”

And the honeymoon, I know,
is the only way I’d ever get to go
to Basel, or Reykjavik, or Tokyo.


From THINGS JUST AREN’T THEY by James Payne, an 159page poetry collection recently released and available hereĀ from Monster House Press.

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