It Can'T Be Art

It can’t be art Spun in a windstorm of caustic insisting Plastered like mud on the walls of Pompeii Frescos of joy before charcoal was misting Writing in ash, catastrophic display Poetic spittle once cast to the broken Scribbled in diction now smeared in the rain So many follow yet nothing is spoken Below these skies with the cherry red stain There in the distance a magpie is flying Scavenging wings while you shout from the ground Screaming a truth midst the unending lying Circling nightmares of places you’re bound Can it be art if it’s not as remembered Past of the days when you pissed in the snow Spelling your name as your mother was watching Turning in shame as if she didn’t know Damning Picasso for changing direction How can a nose sit so far from the face Pollock’s spilled paint way beyond your detection Charging a gallery, demanding your space Photo laced albums of cellophane pages Developed by hand in a room with no light Look at these kids and their digital stages Feigning creative, it just isn’t right Does this explain every tactical action While you count blocks as if streets don’t exist Pulling a woodpecker’s tail to get traction Hiding the reason you just can’t resist You say that art can be all that we’re thinking Then in the same breath you say it’s not true Often we wonder if you have been drinking Make up your mind, it’s the least you can do You are all artists, yes you who are reading Writing your words that you put on display Spilling your heart while emotions are bleeding It breaks my heart when I hear someone say It can’t be art, all those losers are dreaming Seeing and clicking and sending and such Downloaded images, videos streaming When the truth is, you are just out of touch