ARTIST Poem: “Stab Art to Death” or ‘Paint this Poem Red’, Lucien R. Starchild

You want to make something immortal?
Then grab the knife, not the brush,
let the canvas scream crimson,
let the gallery lights flicker
like a failing heartbeat.

No more soft metaphors,
no tasteful still lifes,
just the wet truth of the blade,
the way it parts flesh
like a critic’s tongue
dissecting a lie.

Art is too polite.
It begs for approval,
wears its pedigree
like a gilded collar.
But violence? Violence is honest.
A slash doesn’t apologize.
A wound doesn’t ask
if it’s avant-garde enough.

So ruin it.
Ruin all of it.
Let the paint run
like a gutted confession,
let the frames splinter
into kindling.
When they ask why,
bare your teeth and say:

Because beauty should hurt
or it isn’t real.
Because I’d rather be a wound
than a whisper.

Now watch the critics flinch
as the blood dries
into something
they’ll call genius tomorrow.