I assemble a spiral staircase
In the middle of the museum
I draw chalk lines around me
And behind them the picture-takers
I have long befriended
I performed for them in 70 and 74
There is, atop the platform, a pane of glass
I press my face into it and I
Bend my nose around it and
Behind me are the art reviewers
Wondering when their book will finished be
They seem to me to be so lonely
But on the next day they take my place
As in the dark beneath them I am a lowly body
And the next day I carve stars into
The stomach mother gave me
Still I stand upon the tower at the center of the museum.
Singing words without words.
Does it hurt? yes it does.
Yes it hurts. And that’s the truth,
I wouldn’t keep it from you.
I disassemble the spiral starcase
In the focal point of everything
I said the piece was finished
So you orphans can go home now
I have done the same myself for years
It’s not confusing if you’re looking
For some beauty somewhere.
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