All that is free
“All that is free is careless,” she said
“And all that is careless is false.”
Those thirteen words went right to my head,
And beat through my sleep like a pulse.
I elected to do myself harm,
That I might then understand her:
Took a tool to my sinister arm,
Wrote there in blood “A L E X A N D E R”.
From this prison I painted my pain
In acrylic primary hues.
I let my portrait run in the rain
While I was being sick in my shoes.
But who will buy my innocence lost?
Who will buy this experience?
Who will approximate that the cost
Is worthy of interference?
I will relinquish my grin, my groin;
I’ve played up my badly cast part.
Have them mint a commemorative coin
To be spent on state-funded art.
Mistaken for art or rubbish