This Is Not Art

Poetry to Split the Social Order

Monday, February 28, 2011

Beauty

Running down the street shooting the cameras and policemen to make good art
trying to make the world beautiful by shattering the shit that freezes us
in frames or cages or broken down houses full of poverty and icy fingers
scratching our names in the dirt, so that we will grow grow
and be remembered for our beauty

Life

Every demonstration of our power will leave a corpse in the street
Either Ours
or Theirs
This is Life

Monday, February 21, 2011

Alienation

Sitting in a bright room with lights strung all over like nooses on our birthday
Everyone singing as their friend, sips his way into a coma
Everyone yelling as they shed petals onto the floor
Everyone withering into themselves
"Ive already been dead
and I've come back
its doesnt matter anymore
none of this"

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Love

My tender heart is screaming,
screaming while her hands bleed like christ because she suffers for everyone elses sins,
their shyness, their sadness, their loss is all hers to bear and carry like a limping soldier,
his buddy over his back and his eyes all popping out of his sockets,
she is in a cage and she is scared if she steps out she will have to run naked through the streets and be torn apart by the laughter and the glass that litters the world as if it sprung up like grass or flowers,
while others stand around with mouths hanging open and lips peeled up, exposing their candy pink gums and teeth like razors
her soul is a frightening dream where everything bleeds into everything else and she doesnt know what is real,
her mind flashes nightmare streets and car crashes and bloody afternoon tea and alone figures that are not poetic in the least, just sad and sorry and hurting. Her creamy belly is gushing everything all the time like her words that cant come out and her eyelashes that bat beautifully at the sun,
Her hands are all wounded, her umbilical cord was cut before she stepped a foot on the cold tile in that flourescent room where they beat her as soon as she stumbled out of the womb into this place where everyone is starving.
She is so alone, she is so crazy mad sometimes,
she thinks she has cancer she thinks she is dying she wants to die she doesnt know how to die she wants to whither she wants to bloom and nothing is allowed,
just gray and dusk and weeping

Bloom

The night is filled with spiders running up and down
the legs of all the drunk policemen
biting them in their most tender parts
causing their flesh to bubble and pop
their skin to blister
and like lepers they are cast out
and their music dies in the ears of all the tiny children
smiling at the sand
while we swallow bullets
to kill that part of ourselves
that would do their job for them

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Alone

Sometimes it hurts
when I am the only one in a room
not sucking down poison
or bleeding their veins
cuz I know it is all smoke
and falseness