you fancy yourself an artist when you're really a half-heartist
at >best<
and at >worst< you're just blowing kisses on the asses of
the rebloggables
the retweetables
& the shareables
fraternizing w/ them so they can invite you into their club
here's the thing though
nobody's labeled an artist by association
(oh lookie here, we found an accomplice to this masterpiece
shower them in gold dust and moon glitter)
at >medium< you're just somebody out for a platform
thirsting after a jumping off point to nowheresville
tap tap typing away to stay relevant
yet never putting pen to paper
or stylus to tablet
or tips to keys for something other than
rebl
got mettle like i gotta scrap
something together on the fly
choosing 80 or less
to convey the meaning of what i must say
the bottom of the bottle's
the closest i can get to spiritual
while the swing of this cat's arm is just enough
to fool me into thinking that i can reach
nouveau riche
and the luckiest strike i'll ever get
can be found in the 99 cent store
taxed up beyond its bitter heavy hearted value
that i burn up like chainlinks in the bitterest smokiest way
fortunate? mis(s)fortunate
as i black tape up a glass view
that was never supposed to break
the door's been closed a long time
and the window doesn't work the way it should
now
freedom is as freedom does
bound in an intricate belt system
that loops under the arms and restricts the knees
it goes through the valleys that dip low and
runs close to the "whoopsie
don't look or touch there" space
masquerading this co-creation as a masterpiece
when it's a fistful of petals and desecration
with the colors squeezed out to accelerate the
pale yellow that functions as flesh beneath the bone
the binds are too tight
grip the rubber harder between the teeth
bitter material imprinted on the tongue
flakes off when the molar grinds too much
the binds are too tight
chafe the rope wound around the wrists
rough strands scratching o
decided to become an artist by kaleidofish, literature
Literature
decided to become an artist
"I've decided to become an artist"
but that's not something you decide
to try + strive for.
it's supposed to spark ALIVE in you
not struggle and writhe in you
like some broken snake
all out of slither and
choked up with withered leather.
meandering in the crook of the cranny,
you can't uncover creativity from the spaces that don't {exist}
hodge-podge a collage with your fingers half-glued to the table
bent over with a fork in the leg to activate null-spiration
perspiration when you recoil
from the burn that subsides when you rinse out your eyes.
unfinished dreams bounce out of a throat
filled with tinsel taffeta wratheta take your pick of
Your lofty goals have made you complacent
with meek eyes to the sky rather than to the foreground
inspiration's hard to come by
but you've found a source in this listless girl
Irreplaceable gifts full of fingerprints...
huddled inside of the secondary compartment;
touched more than seen. touched more than felt.
I liked you far better,
that time before we stripped our shadows bare -
nothing
more than a pile of clothes crumpled in the corner -
something
except not anymore.
We skipped the hand holding and the merry wish-making,
preferring to cover ourselves in shiney-eyed artistic uncertainty.
(I can tell loads of stories about th
define: Arnold
traitorous Benedict,
piggly Ziffel,
poetic Matthew,
golfly Palmer,
precocious "Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?" Jackson,
terminating Schwarzenegger,
but no Arnold means as much to me
as the boy with the cornflower hair.