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Art is a whore.

Not by choice, mind you—
Her spirit is chaste.
But she’s been raped
So many times now,
She’s numb,
Detached.

Victim and voyeur,
She watches
Her violations
Like silent movies—
Drained of color,
Mute.

Defiled by the
Pale nectar
Of pride

And another knock
On her door.

 
This poem originally appeared in the 2009 collection Sixty-Six.