art stinks

the stench of the linseed

the almost moldy, cold, wet clay

the acid through the screen

the petrol in the ink

the lye in the dye

the musky perfume of the raw loom

aaaah the heavenly stench

in which we love to drench

our thirsts be quenched

in order to express

what must be freed from our chests

we forever are blessed

by the fumes that lure each creator

to the putrid and familiar

the unmistakable sirening

of the studio

the mess that calls us home

by the wafting of the odor

that becomes art’s aroma

and fills our lungs

so we may express our souls

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