Death of the Artist

Photo by Ksenia Chernaya on

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 a 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
If their work doesn’t want to let it show.
Spare me their biography,
Just celebrate their movie,
Without the kiss-and-tell and dirty stains.
Only their art, not their story, can move me,
Masterpieces 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 they were faceless, truth to tell.
Their interests are none
Of my goddammed interest,
Their privacy is vital – as is mine.
Only their art – for it shows them at their best –
As a stranger, neither devil nor divine.

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