We were supposed to be art
Art in the form of beings
To see, to touch, to evolve with
From the waters, to art
Electricity & salt fueling us
It is all falling, slipping
We are to enchant one another
To feed off the energy produced
By the touch of two eyes
Staring at the moon
Drinking the Spanish wine
The words we speak
The lust that drives us during sex
It is all to have been art
They shoot each other,
Some hate one another,
Others are blinded by themselves
Do not disappear, great art
We are here in the gardens
Inside the paintings
All around the city glowing together
The voice of art is real but fading
Some pretend, no substance
No passion, no sensitivity to the energy
But here it is, a truth to be told
We are to be art, daily
In our sleep to create
In our actions to be alive
And in our minds to explore all worlds

I been drinking since I was sixteen .
That was many a moon ago.
I been in the party life most all my life .

It was a natural environment I fit in like the fucking furniture .
I played the scene for all its worth found many a warm bed seldom was it my own.

Then for awhile I stepped away .
Never from the bottle just from the scene.

Many thought the edge was gone that the wolf settled down became some old dog sleeping upon the porch.

But anything planned is often foiled by life.
And now back to what will be my cemeteries  existence  I return.

Alone but then again a lone wolf isn't the a wolf if not alone.
The fangs still sharp with some fresh scars on display.

False happiness and full of shit .
It wasn't my choice to return but at the party till my death shall I stay.

We all find ourselves wherever the fuck we least expected .
You can't plan life but you can catch a buzz somewhere in the bullshit inbetween.



Does the Point Vanish? Or do We?

In poetry there is no vanishing point
No lines converging in flat distances
Upon a gessoed plane of pleynt and paint
Skillfully rendered for the imagination

In poetry lines flow as languid streams
Or sometimes storm the soul as wilding floods
For seldom do they pause and build a pose
Because lines are imagination

                           Lines converge in flat dis
                               Tances because in
                                   Poetry there
                                     Is no van
              ­                                 .

don't be disappointed if
you think
you don't write enough.

you are walking poetry, a
breathing epitome of art.
you make up for it every
second of your life.

to all poets out there ~ thank you for sharing your works, your heart, your thoughts. and tbh i would love to meet more poets around the world!

letting your ladies limbs spill everywhere
taking care of their affairs
spread them out of your Instagram page
well done babe
you got 50 likes
you're so great

but you were too late
to save your own boring fate
ignorance it's not even blissful
so call her a state instead
cus she's dark
and makes art with scars on her arms
instead of your unshaved legs (lol which i bet they really are)
guess what
you're fake
you keep her quiet
you're a lie

your words don't explain anything
so keep chatting shit
your words don't care for anyone
they hide sin

why you doing it for?

Hades 3d

What if this attention or what mortals called fame,
Vanish all of a sudden, will you still stay the same?

What if time slowly takes my voice away,
Will you turn your back and finally stay away?

What if life keeps me under the soil of the earth,
Will you ever voice out all the pieces I've written for the youth?

I'm a small pilgrim of the earth,
I'm the most trusted of the Deities
I'm the enemy of the mother planet
A tiny dust breathing under the vast skies,
Soon I will die and be one with the ground
And fade away like the sunset,
Letting the dusk that they call death
Take over and be in union with the night sky.

if you made it to the rock chart
this man would paint your face
all his life lived for pop art
that moved from place to place

from Eric Clapton to Hendrix,
and Ringo, George, Paul, John
Amy Winehouse, Stevie Nicks
he'd painted every one

12 feet high and six feet wide
Duran Duran, The Who
his work adorning many sides
The Spice Gils, Siouxsie Sioux

and Prince And Justin Timberlake
Tupac and Biggy Smalls
a pop star they had yet to make
he could not paint on walls

from Elton John in star shaped shades
to lately, Taylor Swift
so many pictures he had made
with likenesses his gift

no Visage caused him trouble
or escaped his artistry
not Michael Jackson's Bubbles
and not Freddie Mercury

a Britney Spears, a Leanne Rhymes
he catered public wants
he did Madonna, several times
and Gary Glitter, once

Ziggy Stardust, Kids From Fame
Jay Z,  Beyoncé Knowles
he'd painted over Curt Cobain
to make room for Dave Grohl

no galleries or posters
no merchandising deals
he worked on rollercoasters
the waltzers and big wheels

but no one ever called him great
no accolades supplied
for painting garish portraits
on a thousand fairground rides

but still he lived his rock star dream
his work in flashing lights
accompanied by young girl screams
on countless teenage nights


Riding past a travelling funfair on 21 July 2017 and wondering, who paints those things?

There are songs that no one sings
Yet they are still heard as melodies

And smiles no one paints
But it doesn't mean we can't call that art

And then there is my heart.
How it quivers at the sound of your name,
and how it loses itself in the thought of your smile.

In all fields of Artistic Endeavor,
One will find the Exceptional
And the Mediocre.
Moralists might try to draw distinctions
Between the Vulgar and the Sublime,
In Whatever forms of Art
You view,
Or Study,
You'll have to refine your Discernment
And lean to separate
The Gold from the Dross.

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