I Aspire to be the Starving Artist: A (satirical?) Poem

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I aspire to be a starving artist

Living on the streets in the farthest

reaches of the globe

an ex-pat, or something contemporary, you know?

And there I’ll starve my way through essays

have meaningful encounters with crack addicts in alley ways

Learn to write in dialects

Foreign to what my fans can imagine or expect.

I want to die in a gutter like Poe

Rejected in life, but in death be so…

Well known.

I want people to say it was a shame I died

Before my time

That I was always ahead of my time, in fact

It’s really a loss that she died like that.

I want History and English majors

(who will end up being teachers)

to scrutinize my every word

to write dissertations on my verse

and to speak to mood and tone and worse,

to symbolization.

I want them to fantasize about my stories

To capsize in the world of my fancies

to carry my work as proof they are enlightened

and defend me when their peers call them pansies.

I want to move generations who don’t have a cause

to give them phrases that make them pause

and although they don’t quite get it

and perhaps they let it mean something I never intended,

I still want them apprehended

screaming my words.

I aspire to be a starving artist

A future pop culture catharsis

for a society of marxists

who don’t know I’m a Democrat,

and don’t care.

I aspire to be somebody

and all I know how to be is a writer

But writers don’t make money,

so I aspire to be a starving artist

and therefore be serious,

and poignant

and prophetic

and hungry.

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4 thoughts on “I Aspire to be the Starving Artist: A (satirical?) Poem

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