"Ut pictura poesis"
The turntable taps as it hisses,
one for the spirit of dead music,
over and over again
like a rap against an empty door
behind which there is no truth hidden,
and when I have entered the room,
battered the night with what's recessed,
and cast it outdoors
where it taps on the windows
in fingers ringed with beetles,
I do not contemplate
the uselessness of all that is art.
There is no time for that.
- Phillip Ellis 2012