Emotional Sunset

A true artist, to me, is exposed to an abyss,

A savage and unrelenting catharsis,

And in this intensely dangerous and beautiful land,

They pluck their visions and transmit by hand.

But sometimes, the artist, as they orbit this sun,

Don’t realise that some black holes have begun,

And this Angus, like none of us sane,

Was living this life again and again,

And while Damian Hirst sells for fifty million quid,

This fella, an inspiration, well, he never did.

The years they passed and passed again,

Shadows became gallows, kids became men,

And hands that were once used to create and inspire,

Began to hatch plans to finally retire.

A rope he made, a silken wonder,

Yet sinuous and tenuous, a shuddering thunder,

I imagine it was white, I may not be right,

But it was virgin rope; it had never held anyone tight.

So I guess the rope was placed in a rucksack,

And it lay there tight against his back,

What else was in there?

Do you put in a flask of coffee? Some sandwiches and knife?

What goes next to a rope that connects you to the afterlife?

Then he got on a train? Was he insane?

Well at that point not by our benchmarks,

He didn’t shout, hit or spit…

He got on a train for an 11 hour train journey!

11 hours to contemplate,

To look out the window and be involved in self-hate.

I travel on a lot of trains,

And know a one hour journey can scramble your brains,

But Angus’s mind was stretched over the complete canvas of his life,

A taunt existence, at a trembling height.

Did he see the world as he wanted it to be?

Did he think with Picassos’ shattering guile?

Did he feel Man Rays existence for a while?

Did he see Duchamp dismantling the illusion?

Or was it all just life and its unbearable intrusion?

Did he think of those artists who didn’t collapse under the weight?

Was he giving up trying?

Was he trying to be great…?

Or was he still obsessed with creation,

And why the fuck didn’t he get off at any station?!

No, he went all the way to the Bridge of Orchy,

Handed in his ticket with a trembling hand,

And started to walk across the wild Scottish land,

Do you walk a different way on your last day?

Maybe your footsteps fall light,

As your soul prepares for its final flight.

What did he think when he saw those great pine trees?

Did he notice the wind and the fucking midges,

He might have slid his rope out with ease,

But there were no low branches on those mighty trees,

So he had to create for one last time,

A hand-made ladder, for a heavy hearted climb.

There are people worse than you, you’d wanna shout,

But it was probably not something he thought about,

Did he laugh or did he cry?

Did he scream out WHY!

About all the things he didn’t get,

As he hung for the last time, in his emotional sunset.