I’m tired of art

The lies

The pain

The bullshit

The corporations

 

The money

The realm

The animals

The courts

The circles

 

The rich

The poor

The heartbeats

The fakes

The abuse

 

The sexuality

The performance

I got a phone call

Every little thing is gonna be all right

 

Now that beauty is in my heart

Even though I realize I’m just dreaming

Perhaps just a wet dream

Or not, I remember grey-haired men

And black-bearded dogs crashing through my window panes

 

I’m just a piece in the board game

Just pay attention

Watch me grow

Fifteen minutes multiply

We’ll be together

And then I’ll forget you

 

I love your art

Smakin’ cereal

I’m tired of that art

The art

This art

Their art

 

Annoyed because you didn’t care

Expressed because who I am, I’m allowed to, I’m permitted

Rejuvenated because of the gallery, the museum, the show, the womyn

In my flame, my heart, my head, my art

 

Then like a tease in the wind

She comes on to me

Like a tease in the wind

And the night engulfs her, swallows her up

And rapes me of my own dreams

And I’m left with nothing

But my art and I hear Indian music playing

Drum beats

And I see Jesus Christ on the horizon

And I ask him for my forgiveness

For art

Everything for art they tell me

They spend

They erase and take and duplicate and rip-off and cherry-blossom and

virgins and thoughts and tough-guys and homeless and gorgeous and wanna-bes

and anti-Vs and record shops and rainy london gals and new york billies and

downtown billboards and san fran surfers and alaska wives and canadian skies

and concert-goers and builders of pages and destruction stories of my life

come and gone. I still smell her perfume on my wrist.

 

 

 

© 1999 David Greg Harth

99.04.09.21:12:00 @ 296

99.04.10.02:28:00 @ 296

New York City