by Nick Gisburne
Her mastery of inks and oils and chalk
Is not a skill I snatched from any shelf.
I never had to teach her mind to talk;
She burst that little bubble by herself.
More powerful, more complex, more complete,
Than any other doll of my design,
Already she surpasses the elite,
A proof that her perfection is a sign,
A signal, to the stewards of the arts,
For those too steeped in sentimental ways,
That here a strange and splendid epoch starts,
Demolishing their moribund malaise.
When art becomes a product of machines,
We find the flaw, the weakness, in our genes.
