Alone in a box and it's filled up with blood,
Two small windows attached by a sensitive line,
A screen overwhelmed by a white and gray flood.
Yell into an ocean two thirds of a pint,
Afloat in the amber of long deceased leaders,
Chase after a drought in the hopes of a sight,
That looks better reflected in six centimeters.
Isn't art never art lest it sound suicidal,
For it only has worth if it makes critics cry,
And the taste of the public remains rather tidal,
Low water leaves thoughts in their heads rather dry,
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