Across the ocean's dome,
Controlled by piercing shouts without a doubt;
On an altar in the distance:
An open book with censored words!
Tear a page,
Observe the rage.
Not what any freedom fighter would.

In a rowboat in the open,
Draw the source of their devotion.
Pencil sketch the jagged beard,
And stretch the nose a thousand years.

What a time to strike some fear!

The terrorists will echo with madness,
The pen is your sword.
The innocent will run to the forests,
And the artists make war.

Across the desert homes,
Contained by giant seas to some degree;
In a planetary orbit:
A crying team with crooked teeth!
See the page,
The winds enrage.
Not what any freedom lover should.

Bullets charge at the comedian's door,
Burning down all the carpenter's lore.
Sculptors mourne over severed stones,
The innocent turn, yearn, learn...

The invasions form, warn, and burn.

As the terrorists echo with madness,
Hold the pen as your sword.
As the innocent run to the forests,
Let the artists make war.

Throw the drawings ashore!

Basquiat - radiant child
made daring visions wild with
frenetic energy, frantic rhythm
with paint on his Armani clothes
with paint on his Armani clothes
with paint on his Armani clothes

If only you’d worn that AARON helmet,
and donned a suit of armour the
day the needle pricked too far,
spiked the skin with ******.
Artist and millionaire.
A walking contradiction
which could not hold.

You began by scrawling truth on walls
your graffiti battle cry,
‘did fame consume you?’
‘just another tragic star?’
I dunno,
I just know
RIP SAMO

There is not a day I don't hear your words, taste the essence of your soul. Watch your heart pump ink through through your mind and paint pictures on your skin. Not a day passes by when god envys the artist under his sky. How they simplify the storms and count colors in the sand. You speak in rhymes and riddles true, music flows beneath you. And not a day passes by when I don't think "your so lovely I could die."

Veins that hold
A** talent only his.
Not confident, but
Great masterpieces.
Oh, what a shame
Gogh died without
High hopes for his art.

Ken and Barbie drive around
in their matchbox cars in my small town
its bright yellow with a stripe you'll see
how hard they try, and wanna be
admired by everyone /including me
stepford wives, and soccer moms
stepford husbands mowing lawns
with perfect twins that keep them in
competition to hide their sins
their tongues spew knives from their lips
about a neighbor that's not so hip...
they're so busy judging everyone
they don't notice flowers in the sun
words, or art -- or people like me
that don't fit in the picture they see
I stand alone in my small town
while Ken, and Barbie drive around.

Ripped curtains,
angry clowns
a bottle of absinthe
on the table stands
' that stuff rots your brain'
he says & she smiles
& pours herself a little
the angry clowns
try in vain to mend the curtains
he knocks over
the bottle of absinthe
& she raises an eyebrow,
fixes her garter
outside, the cardboard moon
plays with the dark,
they kiss,
a youthful painter paints them
having paid
for his latest brush
as usual
with *** & lies
a white lily in a vase
looks on
silently

Artists wait in the darkness
Of an unlit light, creating
In colours,
Using what they hold.
They give us
Red for veins,
Green for eyes,
White for space.
Theiy grow dim
In the wings,
But must carry on
For silent patrons,
To release the struggle.
They ply art in the dark,
Waiting for one ray.
As natural philosophers
We ask, Why must I create?
We know how monsters
Loose control
When life takes on a life of its own;
As does all of creation.

Of a night on a battered red leather sofa
It's moved with us three times
It sits in a room with a broken bay window
And we sit on it too
And we sit on it too

Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses
With ice, not warm water
Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles
Of girls with leopard-print hands
And the straw man in the moon
The straw man in the moon.

The cord hangs on the wall:
A symbol, but not symbolic
As chords rise, break off and fall
All a sham, but not shambolic
A sham, but not shambolic.

Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls
And days with names that don't suit them
People dying for causes they don't understand
And war is an island; a land hyperbolic
A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.

Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped
A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped
But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking
The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed.
We hear children singing in the guitar strings,
Their screeches rising as they fall,
Our speeches diving as they fall.

And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine
But in France, man... in France the markets are open
And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac
And Brocéliande lies to us all,
And Brocéliande lies to us all.