I think that’s all he knows now
Everyone deserves a chance
But there’s something about art
And money
That almost feels like
Robbing a bank and
Getting away with it
They’d louse about
At his showings
But he’d answer any questions
They would ask
Ran a pencil through his ear
Like a pencil sharpener
But that wasn’t art
That was magic
The magic tasted the money
And now he stays inside
All the time
Working on his masterpiece
Living off royalties
And cheap replicas
Of the real thing
Who’d have dreamed
The dog sitting, licking
The canvas would bleed
Onto the frame
He doesn’t answer
Questions anymore
And he does what Faulkner did
With all his mail
(look it up)
I guess when they eat up
Whatever you shit out
…I can see how that
Might change an outlook
But art’s a lot like money
Or wait, no it’s not
2 comments:
Have you ever thought about shaking up your style? I mean, the format of the poems?
I like this one, but in the same way I like a lot of yours... it sort of fits the same mold.
Not that I can talk. Most of mine sound pretty much interchangeable. Which is probably a reason I haven't written anything in a while. Oh well.
Your poems are all so negative about art... There's a general format of truth-revealing, like it sounds like you're uncovering a great jewel of wisdom, but... have you ever wondered what it really means? Any of it? I don't mean just your poetry. I mean... any of it.
By that logic I would never write another poem again, but still... it's gotta be worth thinking about at least a little. *shrug* I have no idea what I'm saying. Just whatever's in my head. However it may have got there...
The first stanza keeps nagging away at my mind. There's something memorable about it.
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