between masks and stanzas

lies reality and art

not transparent

any longer

all together equally carry


forced to a questionable

uniformed mass.

the stanzas flare up

while the long hair falls

to the thrashing floor of

man-forced reality –

you only have to peel

the onion

so your tear-filled eyes

will see the truth in the


forced realities in everyday

life belie the tokenism of

cultural institutions for art.

truthful art lies on a layer

of reality

the artist has fought for

all his life –

you know the biographies

of many

but not many will take the

one step to care about it –


will eventually come with

a lockdown

destruction of the human

fibre for living

art/ the modifier/ humidifier

of the soul/ last barrier for

a joie du vivre/ air to breathe.




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