Pointed Art
by Michael R. Burch

The point of art is that
there is no point.
(A grinning, quick-dissolving cat
from Cheshire
must have told you that.)

The point of art is this—
the hiss
of Cupid’s bright bolt, should it miss,
is bliss
compared to Truth’s neurotic kiss.

Keywords: art, Cheshire, cat, grin, vanishing, dissolving, Cupid, arrow, truth, kiss, bliss

In the shower,
I can't help but grin
as the water burns my skin.
I can't deny that the pleasure and pain
Drives me insane.
It's funny how simply standing
Under an artificial rain
Can bring so much peace
And offer access to the deepest
Thoughts in our brains.
And then you turn it off,
And your body steams
As you watch it all go down the drain.
Then you get out,
And you can't believe you're cold again.
Just keep moving forward, and until then, remember when.

It lurks below my consciousness, the beast beneath the bed
Tortured by imagination, vivid in my head
Strikes without notice, the world is dark and blind
To all the ****** massacres that play behind my eyes

Victimhood held hostage, convinced manipulation
Sickly soul so serpentine, saboteur salvation
Left within the grimaced grin, of tormented left demented
Suffer so, these chains and ropes, you'll never be accepted

Amusement starts to linger, maybe mould, or rot
Decaying internally, for he feels the hope is lost
So smile, smile, smile, and learn to love the sinner
For all that will remain is this twisted, Grim Grinner

the last time you
felt inresitable closeness
where when you went
into this dark basement...







there was a man in a cage
he received you with rage
as you animalically engaged
in the provocation of greed

amber on his skin
yellow-colored fluid
and your pulse beat
the same speed
as you turned into a unit

then you woke up and smelled
his grin

My mind morphed his evil grin
into a warm smile.

Fields flood high of corn stalks
As we drove along with the country roads
Leaves splattered pathways in a vibrant tint
Electrifying the crisp air around us
Pumpkins grinned softly
Nesting in beds of acorn heads

Fall couldn't be any better
Than watching out the window
And laying my eyes upon the setting sun
While apple cider and spice linger in the ether
Protected in your sweater

The geese are a honking loose thread across the sky. I can hear them in my wicker chair like they're sitting right next to me and I think their voices carry at least as far above as down below. So loud. The sound of changing seasons on the wing. You'd think a goose-whisper would be enough to keep their conversation going, but no. I need to hear them in my wicker chair too, apparently. I kinda like that. Maybe they are talking to me. Maybe their sounds are like street-songs for strangers, or God-praise, or apple pie cooling on a neighbor's window. Maybe they made something really pretty in their hearts, and it's so big they can't keep it down their noodle-necks anymore. And so they're singing it out, for the whole world to see, like a big grin, and it's just perfect that I hear it in my wicker chair, it makes it even better, and that's why they're so loud. It could be.

And I look at you and I just smile.
I grin from ear to ear.
But my heart.
My heart is crying rivers.
I trained my eyes.
So that they won't shed a tear.
This way you can't notice my pain, my sorrow and my doubts.
This way I can keep it to myself.
Keep it all close in my chest.
So that you.
You will see me,
And you will look at me and I will just smile.
I will grin from ear to ear.
Everyday.