“…This is an extra luxury.”
“Yes, art is always an excess,”
I replied, kissing her knees.
“But excess only saves us from poverty.”
– Vasyl Stus – Ukrainian poet
art
It’s The Lost Art Of Seduction
It’s the lost art of seduction
Love her;
Make her eyes roll to the back of her head
Cherish her presence in your life
She’ll appreciate you
Make you a happy man instead
I’ve The Heart Of A Poet
I’ve the heart of a poet
In a technician’s body
When I’m not up to specs
This society gets haughty
I wish to see hope & beauty
Expectations of a cyborg soul
Art doesn’t follow schematics
Floundering in this incompatible role
Acknowledge These Peaceable Arts
Acknowledge these peaceable arts
Boring affairs these days, if truth be told
The proper staffing present & accounted for
I flirt with the notion that fortune still favors the bold
Reeking of this polite society
These standard fare sisters & brothers
But I’d be out there before the mast
Swilling shanties & rum; if I had my druthers
As The World Continues To Burn
As the world continues to burn
There’s a lot we’re going to miss
Even still, thou shall support the arts
& grant thy poet a kiss
Sheets & Reams Of The Nonsensical
Sheets & reams of the nonsensical
Literary blood lost in the shadow of ink
The lifeforce of a simmering soul
Marginal hearts writing love against the kitchen sink
Leaving behind the caricature of an artist
Contributions to society felt in these empty sheets
Fingersmudges marking pages not so white
Starkly exposed with revolutionary words in the streets
Traces of hereditary ideals eroding away
Igniting pages shall still be a stilted sin
Yet we rise again from our desert floor
Eternally grateful our finite letters aren’t porcelain
The Glories Of A Sunny Morning
The glories of a sunny morning
Smiling into my coffee; subtle credo
Trying to create my masterpiece
But, I’m distracted by my libido
Looking for my stunning bride
Maybe get a little taste under her skirt
A surefire way to get artistic juices flowing
Interest shifted; she can only help, never hurt
I’m Tired, Weary, Fatigued, However You Want To Call It
I’m tired, weary, fatigued, however you want to call it
This world is tearing itself apart, with no end in sight
Neighbors can’t stand the appearance of each other
If we don’t swerve, we’re all going to face the fiery night
Reject hate, reject them, reject the world’s system
I don’t care if kindness long ago went out of fashion
Don’t accept your options, make your own way
We need return to art, return to love & compassion
‘They’ are anyone who’ll tell you we can’t survive
Without stooping down to unconscionable degrees
Rebel, refuse & reclaim enlightenment & love
Lead ourselves away from their dysfunctional societies
God reserves a place in Hell for those who spout hate
Whether you believe in Christ or what Buddha taught
Love doesn’t see the differences between us
We can do better; a peaceful way must be sought
Politicians are no more than door to door salesmen
Fraudulent purveyors of the American dreamscape
But we, the silent underground, emerging each day
Fed up with their vision, proof that heroes don’t wear capes
Image by Grae Dickason from Pixabay
James Baldwin
“All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story; to vomit the anguish up.”
― James Baldwin
Captain Q 