The Game of Art

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(What is art as such? This is a perennial question that dogs me all the while as and when I embark on defining it per se but cannot reach the decisive moment to leave the paradox unscathed all for a reasonable compromise. And I become all the adamant to cal l it quit while I rise up to say that nobody should dare to define art in a cloak of straight jacket as I think that defining art is nothing but putting the shackles on its body and binding its hands and feet so that it cannot move itself and cannot move the human psyche more in a committed feelings and imaginations. With that views in my mind and at my disposal, I view all sorts of art from story telling down to painting canvases. Whenever anybody convicts me to the offence of breaking the game of art in its rule of the game, I decide to play truant by taking refuge to the concept of art for art’s sake as a self-defence and I am really adamant about my posture. I say that enjoy art to suffer from non-communication which is a way to communicative alienation of art…)

Nothing pleases me more
If and when the darkness steals my light
Even at the nightwatchman’s whistle
Virtual eyes win the game of art at an easy space
If and when is the time to last
To kill the shadows of eternity in an obliging continuity

I fall before the straight night
Bending me over the top of the surfing waves
While the marmaids of the blue river
Quenching the long syntax of the game of art
As and when I portray the sketches of the little heart
The wooden brush just fumbles in blush

Every time I slide down the rough ride
My heart aches at the demise of the greatest work of art
The morbid pleasure sweeps me away
At the right turn of the end of the worst vehicle
That tends to turn topsy-turvy all the while
As and when the rule of the game seems to be all the same

The blue plaza spreads all over walking canvas
And the game of art tends to be tearing all and everything apart.


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