art for art's sake

you called me a depressed poet and i liked the sound
liked the sound of something deafeningly absolute
so surely sure
as water's wet.

my mind tremors like a body held to loving
only one way
everything else is east indian voodoo and
spines like mine don't bend like you do.
used to the arms and legs of a story
stored up in a body
i create and caress and worship and
yield to
daily.
know it as sure as sure as
a needle sticks
and a period is the half-life
(at least it's not the ellipses...)
(or the parentheses)
used to live
living in a story
act one
then two
then three
back to one.
but this is some swinger shit,
some crazy one night stand
for the sake of sound
and getting one out and
letting it go
and exploding in a dada-esque
implosion
type of sound...
ungrounded
not found...

who said it made sense?
the body is for loving
as the fingers are for loving
and writing...
(there she goes with those ellipses)
who wouldn't want to ellipses this?
this manic free-write,
this all over the page, crazed
word play
make it last forever
because we both know it could never stay
never stay...
never stay...

wild writing is just that
wild
a story makes a better pet

it feels like the best sex you've ever had
reeling out in the free write
don't tell me you haven't thought
of leaving that slaved over manuscript
that carefully tended poem,
the tracks of an album you've killed and re-vived
killed
and re-vived
for a year
or a lifetime,
don't tell me you haven't thought it
once,
or twice
or hourly.
letting go
Thoreau-ing your fingers into
mysterious landscapes,
sensory lust
for just
the pleasure of it

perhaps that's what they mean
by art for art's sake.