Ãrtè Mödernē

The canvas was beaten and bruised. Acrylic swung into amorphous globs, tracing a trajectory only a demolitionist could enjoy.

A clown orgy, covered in vomit and cotton candy, taking place on an uneven carousel.

The artist, a schlump, dead eyed, malnourished husk of a being, hovered next to the display. "It's a reflection in reality carved into a self-portrait. Munch and Picasso would be astonished." He sneered from behind uselessly large glasses.

A spattering of applause echoed in the small studio. The blood percolated in my face. This bowel movement from a deceased animal rested on the wall, and everyone wanted to fuck it voraciously. Their sexes throbbed just at being in proximity to the piece and its originator.

I turned and shuffled away, with a single thought bursting from the folds of my grey matter.

What the hell happened to art?