Death of the Artist

Death of the Artist

I don’t want to know
If my favourite writer
Served time for beating-up his wife.
I don’t want to care
If a star were a blighter
With an ego and a wasted life.
Their business is none
Of my goddammed business,
Their headlines are not worth my time.
Only their art is worthy of greatness –
Anonymous, timeless, and sublime.

I don’t want to hear
If my favourite singer
Is a boorish, boozy bro.
I don’t want to learn
Who’s an avid right-winger
Whose works don’t let it show.
Spare the biography,
Don’t make a movie
With kiss-and-tell’s cruellest stains.
Only their art, not their story, can move me,
Expression free of baggage trains.

I don’t want to make
A god of my hero,
I don’t want a perfect polished shell –
But nor do I need
To make them a Nero –
I’d rather them faceless, truth to tell.
Their interests are none
Of my goddammed interest,
Their privacy’s vital – as is mine.
Only their art – for it shows us their best –
And if you treat me the same, that’s fine !