Unknown artist’s manifesto

The paint drippings on her body were all I could ask for today.
Commission in pocket, head to skies and shoes polished:
Immaculate depiction of an artist’s middleclass dream.
I try not to breath too enthusiastically – turpentine still fills my nostrils over smells of heavy flesh –
As I whisper my first prayer:
That for a little while longer life could exists solely of truisms.
Why do we only see virtue in faded flashbacks and literary tropes?

But no, I wanted more.
I promised to steer away from solipsism – no ‘l’art pour l’art’ –
But instead bathe myself in the sweat
Of those who’ve build pyramids,
And started families, deprived of wages.
That I would orate not in salons,
But on top of tiny little soap boxes, bassinets of working-class heroes.
And that this piece in front of me,
Would be my magnum opus:
Homage to humbled masses.

But she relished our bourgeois enterprises,
Wishing cake upon those trembled on
by structures we were enjoying.
For the house that privilege built still needed a ballroom
For tiny people and massive egos,
The only intelligent culture,
Found growing in the lavatory.
And my artivism wouldn’t supply champagne,
But merely crusts for others.
I told her I’d rather scribble my life’s work on toilet stalls,
Than to give  it up to kings.
In response our premature wedding china took flight,
Seeing if I could dodge plates,
As well as inquiries.
She left and slammed the door.

Morning came, cock crowed thrice:
A banging on the door sealed my fate.
Leathered art-critics threw punches,
Landing in an empty stomach.
Policemen sending me the message
That blasphemy is still a crime,
And my engagement is off.
Faeces flung, chants taunting sung,
Children rhyme with hate and crass.
So I remember a golden ring,
So I can sing back to that mass
That like my fame—fuck, infamy—this last march too’
Is bound to pass.
As they drag me off I ponder headlines:
Murder most wicked, by muse most mute?
The briefest trial ensued.