does truth lie
only in the grass growing
from concrete slabs
of the architects dream
there can be no honesty
in that which is beyond
critique
or has the stamp of convention
the true artist knows this
and consciously
smears shit on the critic
and the lover
and the foe
consciously tuned perfection
demands
the trained ear to hear it
and reject
only then can a work sing
from the gutter
be more than money
and praise
The Blue Book
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