Did Durer dig his burin into copper plates the way That gravediggers must excavate a hallowed ground? With pure intention, pointed tools, and rigid rules to regulate The voids for which their trade is so renowned. Because our galleries are washed in vodka tonic Sterile scrawls like common wallpaper and ready-mades abound. And though Ive spent a hefty cent to find this fountain I have doubts that it could resonate with any other sound Than when it was a fixture in the mens room Just a pisser in the water closet flushing discharge down... At a loss, searching my heart Wondering where thou art. Would Rembrandt push his brush at random, throwing frantic fits In tandem shredding colored canvas into threads? Or with a calm demeanor calculate the perfect scenery As engineers apply their learned heads. Because our galleries are drenched in cheap red wine Resigned, pretentious explanations of some sculptor splashing lead And though Ive spent many an hour scrutinizing what is written I have no recollection of what was read Only intellectual masturbation self indulgent recreation Is mindfulness alone among the dead? At a loss, searching my heart Wondering where thou art. Chained up in the skulls of postal workers, grocery clerks Still trapped inside the budding minds of teenage girls. Shackled deep beneath a superficial fortress Forced to hide away from gnashing swine, such precious pearls. If we fostered self-expression in our children Half as much as we encourage them to straighten out their curls, Perhaps wed resurrect an obligation to our selves And thus our nation to address what ails the waning world. At a loss, searching my heart Wondering where thou art.
Posted on: Fri, 31 Jan 2014 17:21:13 +0000
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