yummy banana, tasty banana.
eat 10,000 at once, die.
yummy banan, testy banarn.
heving srokke.
heel pme.
10,000 bannn kil u frm pot as yum.
skadoosh!
Yesterday I met you
You were wearing a mask
As embroidery
Nonetheles we kept talking.
Mister Alfred
Mister Alfred
Alfred, the pianist who is also my father
although he denies the paternity vehemently,
was in Hawaii and played the ukulele with
Had little success and returned to Europe.
Alfred, the pianist and also my father, could
get the sweetest tones when he played and
women swooned in other men’s arms,
was when not playing of a rather sullen nature
He spent the day walking around town with
In an alpaca jacket and a French bonnet, he looked ever
artistic, and I followed him around, once when I fell
A bollard got in the way; he did help me up and
I`m not your father!
Alfred, the pianist and also my father, got to be
ninety-two, and in the last years of his life was glad
to have a son, even if it was a fake one, as Alfred
was fond of pointing out
'Time' and 'Death' are the only axioms.
Things you cannot manipulate.
Together, they eventually destroy everything.
Then, breathe life into the ashes.
Forgotten concepts, even gods who don't bleed.
I smile in Annihilation's face.
Life is an abattoir hymnal written as a Jisei.
A poem that always ends with a question/mark.
The mortician finishes your storyline, not you.
Punctuation through confrontation with both.
My job is important, I bring closure.
And I create monsters to negate certain fates.
How dare society treat me like a freak...
Every single time I ask for coffin options...
Each time I ask for lipstick preference...
Everyone reacts how you'd expect...
Now, ask yourselves, why do I write splatterpunk?
Our deathbed waits for no one
It has legs with wheels following close
Fore the fastest mako breaching/brought
Can slam into your reality, splatterpunk
Does the higher-ups work w/bridge$
Against the chernukha backdrops
Titan Arumatic therapeutic extras
Granite broke down into atoms you couldn't comprehend
Without a micro/scope, dreamstate dialog
Promisee talking about power, Faustian tête-à-tête
Hungry colorful golf ball(sp)oons, aim for pupils
Falcon will drop the rabbit, serpentine dance
Snake may hold insidious ideas, draw a line
That word it rights is the mise-en-abyme
In cursive with dark reverie
I'll die for literary nuance
My pages are empty-handed
Lines intersect in geometrical artistic expression
I feel way too humble,
To weave all these things,
With this pen of mine!
A soft wind whispers
early September.
The year is passing
and you are closed
for good.
You were more
than brick and mortar—
You had a heart.
Now you rest in shadows
in the downtown.
You still bear the voices
of those who came in
for a burger or a drink
also playing video games
or sports.
I still hold in my heart
how you cared for
the servers working
their way through college.
They were the dearest friends.
But mostly I remember
the Friday nights when
I stood on the dining porch
and you urged me to sing.
I still hear the applause.
I still hold dear the night
when I painted a waterfall
while nursing a drink
in your loft.
O how a blank canvas came to life.
Each morning the sun shines
but your lights are off.
Sparrows dance in the sidewalk
and chatter by the front steps.
But as I drive and take a look
I sing my song for you.
Artist, please yourself above all others ~
for the sin of praise, the truth is smothered
What not is to oneself? A question ever been told to myself
Whether you love, you taught, you thought, and you lost
The camaraderie to you and yourself is the greatest bond
To know the boundaries - where you can fly and fall
Where you can commit to all and to stand tall
Even one voice, small. Hectic, make it a mall
In the end of the day, what not to oneself?
Where you stood to all, but mistakes come forth
When you feel life's winding up north
It is the blade, into something that halts
It is not for you, but a lesson and is daft
Take care, world is cruel even in mononym
I entertain the magical flame with these hands.
There is no clutch.
No corner.
Everything is the same.
My empty perfume bottles
each one a brilliant masterpiece
Mouth blown and hand treated
Ornate colorful glass
or sparkling crystal
Exotic fairy tale beauties
luxurious and decorative objects
When the sun shines, spots of light
dance in the room with a wide range of red,
orange, yellow, green, blue and purple
Collecting perfume bottles
has become a fascinating hobby
Some date back to the ancient Egyptians,
Romans and Greeks
on 18th and 19th centuries
Always on the hunt for antique
perfume bottles
Sniffing the corks
Even though they are empty
they still have some scent
losers made me realise what i'm really good at
throwing hands was never my way to fight
until they arrived and
i broke what was broken by them
i found a way to turn this pain into art
every betrayal that came my way
changed my view about a friend
including the way i see this thing called friendship
We all mark time
until, in time,
we mark loss.
In the meantime,
we make our
mark
and
mark-make.
I often go for the scene.
I want the story intertwined,
In the angle of the bottle.
The whole mood,
Of the narrative,
In the contour.
And it is the angle
And the contour
That keeps me in.
Like a hungry cat before its food.
Limbs still cling to their withering leaves.
Shimmering in sunlight like flames of fire,
they flutter in the morning breeze.
Autumn's splendor is Nature's masterpiece,
painted in shades of russet and gold.
Specific Types of Art Poems
Definition | What is Art in Poetry?
Poems Related to Art
craft, profession, dexterity, artistry, knowledge, adroitness, ingenuity, mastery, facility, trade, imagination, know how, aptitude, expertise, inventiveness, knack, method, virtuosity, craftsmanship, guile, duplicity, artfulness, deceit, artifice, craftiness