a day without art

I’m sitting, collecting dust
in the corner,
haven’t moved in a while,
just a stillness, felling frozen,
my limbs in a forced rigour mortise
while still feeling the pain of life,
bless what my name says to me,
calls out to recall
messes,
after 250 odd millimetres
the sun has poked its nose through the forest,
drying the expanded, sponged concrete,
soon to be covered by fresh breaths,
black blood drips, slowly, it burned through
two litres a week, those germans
can sure make a car that goes on all ones,
I felt lost, riding through the city and forgetting,
the streets, a maze in my mind, the cars, an easy escape,
a fatal mistake, I’d be picked off of the ground and washed
away by the rain, gray limelight and my own fifteen minutes
to define my front page spectacular,
listing memorial day memories of someone else
who is dead and gone,
but dancing in a far off place, no longer cold or
sweating with impartialities, climbing inside
the well worn centre of time, to many and
the hundred or so billion who’ve known it,
feelings worn out through time and age, grace and
crystal castles so easily turn to sand, only to be blown
away by a childslike fancy,
whimsying its surroundings into
whatever it sees fit.

after spending some time with a friend,
talking of the value of art,
perennial displays of aesthetic utopia
to discover therein your rhinal philosophic
capability and engrailed circuses,
in our public, we transcend space at every interval
of wake and dream, sleep and
unconscious wanders the minor,
the truth shall set a moment
free of the lie in itself, the code
by which it reaches spectacle, the
screen white as night, she walled
me into security, and a guard
was what became of me,
consuming cake, yellow, fake,
and pouring into the
lake bordering michigan and ontario,
two grab bags and attilla’s chewed spit,
we conferred across an unkempt
back alley parking façade up until
a creak where an old man was drunk
and waiting for something, we asked
him about the value of art, what
he thought of it, he told us he
had three different kind of cancers
and that he was homeless, he clearly
didn’t understand what we were
talking about, hardly a tooth to chew,
I rode my bike home and brushed
my teeth and went to bed, comforted
with myself for being so good looking
and smart. Hopefully that homeless
cancer ridden fuck dies soon so that we
can steal his sleeping spot, it was a great
place to smoke smokes, get wasted and fuck.

art's become about as fun as shitting your pants on lsd. It's more than it really is.