Suites slink in, in silk, to pimp art’s pure soul,
For pleasure, for dollars, for clout, for; sold.
Pawning her innocence, disgracing her grace,
Tricking, her trade, betrays her reverence.
Collateralized, she’s flipped to Johns is high places,
Meaningless trysts, toll “collaborations”,
Trick by trick emotion drowns in aggregation.
Ink deep inside her snatches her choices,
Gagged in monologues, she screams, voiceless.
Kusama dots paste soulless pleasure,
Murakami touch, a soulful, timeless treasure.
Fertile potential, futile beauty,
Doting miscarriage—shareholder’s duty.
Exiled socialite, influence dashed,
For what!? Death memorialized… cash.