If I somehow
***** this up, and die
in some stupid, boring, clichéed,
romantically tragic way
while I'm still sort of
young and
sort of attractive, and
you are, too,
I hope you
**** on my grave,
howl profanity at the couldn't-give-a-**** sky,
and curse me inside-out
for being
so derivative and
predictable.

Are you a cat or bird,
devil or saint?
Villain and victim, dichotic romantic,
bruised and beaten, ostracised.
Bruised and beaten, demonised.
A willow bending against cruel fashion's wind.

A thousand storms of impotent hate,
jealousies and malignant complaints.
Rain like sonnets before the deaf!
As your gifts are pearl before swine.

And yet thy brow is regal still.
The profile of a demon prince -
no matter what shape taketh the face.
Be thou Quasimodo or Adonis by fate.
Whose smile has lit a thousand candles
in thankless, bitter hearts,
and fires in the hearths of freaks
who need but a spark to break the leash.

Or art thou Prince of Cats?
Yearning for the freedom to roam, to hunt.
Seeking pleasure, his mistresses pats.
The enemy of closed doors and cold paws.

Or could thou be a bird?
Clipped wings, a gilded cage,
whose song can only go so far.
If not let to glide into the night, to rise,
to greet the dawn with bleary, satisfied eyes.
Of one who has been given the chance to soar!
Or else to wilt, and yowl no more.

Let the artist's thought embrace the night,
As he scribble it all till dawn;
For words are enough to end a fight.

Bagged with pens and clearest sight,
He wandered the world alone;
Let the artist's thought embrace the night.

Inspired by the beauty of colors and light,
He described the majestic throne;
For words are enough to end a fight.

To give everyone what is just and right,
He painted it with for hone;
Let the artist's thought embrace the night.

Aiming to share a peaceful flight,
He uttered in the loudest sone;
For words are enough to end a fight.

Striving for future's height,
Dreaming for a joyful tone,
Let the artist's thought embrace the night,
For words are enough to end a fight.

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.