Dancing Waters
They drop like leaves
They cut themselves like Branches
They transfer their heart to their back
They paint themselves in red
The guns and boots are resurrected
They tattoo the ground with their footprints
They create a black cloud in the Atmosphere
Tears Flow like the Saskatchewan River
They feed themselves to the mouths of the earth
They beat the drums of discord
They chants the songs of hatred
They dance to the tunes of their misguided conscience
They sting themselves like buzzing bees
Stitches and needles waiting to sew the clothes of mourning under the morning sun
Black and white costumes filling the earth with their unending tears
They dry their tears under the consoling arms of sympathisers
They wear an expression of remorse
They set their conscious free from the shackles of war
Author: Ginikachi Obah
ART IS DEAD MY FRIEND
ART IS DEAD.
Whitewashed and derailed,
By modernism vacuous hand.
That scream empty metaphors.
To cash rich sympathisers
And con-ceptualists scamming our intellect,
with their o so profound egotistical postulating.
About the nature of existence,
And meaning of being.
But it's all smoke and mirrors.
A three card trick.
Unsatisfying unnourishing.
Greasy burgers for the soul.
What would VAN Gogh do?
Probably pluck out an eye,
And sew an ear to his head.
So lets have a moment silence,
In this hour of grief,
As I whisper "art may you rest in peace".