I've seen her Blood burning up the moon
lighting a fire under deceptively useless things
"close your eyes shut up" she says
"now is no longer a failing regime"
But future leaks green in her eyes
Sacrificing ideas to make her artwork last
Gliding between passion and submission
She says there's no hope for iconoclasts
Art can no longer satisfy soul hunger
Art is now for cash
She's still beautiful to me
reflecting what she doesn't soak in
like algae or zoo plankton
she's feeling passion when
she hopes she's just what she should be
and somewhere out there is a bigger hand
that says she believes
She's beautiful and she's clean
maybe she should be quarantined
or can she swing from the corporate tree
can she swing for-
Maybe I don't want to lose her to this mechanical reflex world
and what she hasn't done isn't done
this may seem selfish and I know it is absurd
but nothing grows in corporate gardens I'm sure
I'm no martyr for security
maybe just a sideshow then
that relieves the pitch and waits for the dawn
or gives in as idealism's victim
and somewhere out there is a bigger hand
that says he believes
She's beautiful and she's clean
maybe she should be quarantined
or can she swing from the corporate being
can she swing for me?
