"banksy" poems
Banksy,
vandalize me!
Write on me
when no one sees.
Color me truth
and let me be.
Reveal to me,
Banksy,
please!
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
If I stole your art, could you blame me?
The melodic curves
or rhythmic edges,
organic pastels,
or heart-throbbing neon,
awake as the eyes that envisioned them.
My muses all run to you with eager,
little fingers,
pinching and plucking at your sketches,
protruding tongues, and rolling sneaky, spiteful eyes in my direction,
******* on your creations with humming bird vigilance.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
hey man,
nice work
hope your comfy
where ever you
are
whatever you’re
doing
I’m doing nice
feeling
good
even though I feel pretty
bad
but anyways,
love seeing pictures of your stuff
“one nation under CCTV”
haha,
that’s
clever
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 5:49 PM UTC
I'll be on the front lines
Fighting fireflies on a Golf Course
With a butterfly net
Collecting ghosts in mason jar
to plant back on the cemetery
The crows are making nests
in the skull of your family
They accidentally put
the wrong name on yours
And in Latin!
It's ok though, because you're
(were) Are? a nihilist
The river Nile is the
best stream of consciousness
Known to man and of
Course that's where you drowned
your metaphorical thoughts
While you hung yourself above
a treadmill trying to pretend
you wanted to be a better
man
But you only ran away
The Stonehenge is the front gate
to your home
It's made from
billboards and
Pictures of static
When you're dead you
Live in White Noise
You're turning my lights
on and off
as I'm trying to sleep
haunting me in
my over easy eggs
making the yolk run
in words "Miss me?"
And of course I do
But you are as good a my imaginary friend
When I'm walking in the
park with all the scarecrows
you make the dandelions
float, no amount of
wishes is bringing you back
I know boards of wood are
easier to you than the termites
eating the tumor in my brain
from the insanity you're causing me
So instead I paper mache my
room with love letters from you
that got lost in the mail
because you stole them for me
A banksy bankrupt in original thought
I'm building a tiny forest
of matches
If I can't sleep I'm joining you
So you pack your bags, hobo
style but with
Picnic baskets and dead leaves
Seancing yourself
With the crystal ***** of my eyes
I lost you in some newspaper ad
about a Home for sale
Does it come with a family?
How is that legal?
But I lost you because I bought the wrong copy and couldn't find that one blurry word that was you saying
Good morning
I lost you at sea
And in my dreams
And to your own hands
And to my own memory
I'm dancing with wolves
Called Alzheimer's
because I'll die
with a disease of age
Instead of house burning, building leaping
Front Page
Then we'll go live in abandoned
amusement parks with creaky
Ferris wheels turning
Like you in your grave
And me with the Cycle of Life
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
there is a man called banksy he paints upon a wall
sprays on any building either big or small
a painter of renown a famous man is he
painting pictures every where for all the world to see
a superstar of art an icon we all know
everyone knows banksy no matter where you go
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
Are you relieved to be normal?? It's something only you see.
Wasting away with a false impression we're all as strange as can be
I take some consolation as light reflects differently before passing my eyes and disguising inside mistaken identity
Spooked by our shadows safer with backs against trees
Wandering hopeful in vast space kicking round autumn leaves
Vanish like Houdini chained in a box at the bottom of the sea.
Just like smoke through every vent caught by any breeze
I think a part of everyone resides somewhere else
The 21 grams we lose in death
We've all wondered what it was in the corner of our eye
Maybe you looking back at you now you've died
Say there was no answer just questions?
Would we stop looking for them in the bottom of glasses?
Something seems strange but I'm not sure
It's not a disease there is no cure
It's not a house of cards or castles made of sand
But a poisonous web spun by delinquent human hand
Sunny days and weekend stays in places far from home
Meet the locals to say goodbye before you've even said hello
Leaves in trees so eager for a breeze to fall
This is no life at all.
Its one or two things that remind me it's a game
The tedium like nails at scabs and the blood it'll bring
A slice of lemon is all I need to add a little colour.
Perhaps a banksy on my garden wall.
Having a door held for me.
Strawberries for breakfast.
Punctuality.
Four feet at the foot of my bed.
Not waking contemplating regret.
Sun on my face
Sand in my shoes
A different kind of saltwater kisses.
Grandstand welcomes from close friends.
Tearful goodbyes everytime.
The magic must happen when I blink or during the blackouts when I drink.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
Banksy once said that
you die twice: when
your heart
stops
and when
somebody says your name
for the last time.
I feel immortal.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
we can question the nature of art,
what it means to be beautiful.
I see hopscotch in chalk on sidewalks,
children laughing and playing while a political picture,
à-la-Banksy
stares blankly down at them from a brick wall.
I see that,
and around the corner is a
spraypainted
tag
that illuminates the area as existing through poverty
but it doesn't stop
kids from playing. Even if the city pays a man to take down the
tag
because adults are afraid.
While we decide what is worth keeping,
can we please remove that
hideous hopscotch?
Please, it's poorly drawn, and it leads to
young people
gathering.
And that's scary,
right?
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
I gave, you took,
My heart,
My soul and time.
You left, I stayed,
Withdrawn and supine.
I was a still life,
In the shades and lights of day.
I wrinkled and went dry,
Through skin down to my core;
Was fading and wasting away,
Like a Banksy on a rainy day.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 9:41 AM UTC
I am actually a huge fan of Banksy and thoroughly enjoyed Dismaland but the A level kids I teach at a school just down the road from Weston couldn't get in because they've got Art P2. We wrote letters and sent emails but had no reply. They were very disillusioned by it all so their art teacher decided to take them to Dismaland and show some of their work on the grass outside. Security were not impressed and called the police. We made a film about it and I read this poem at the gates. This is the first part.
So this is where this tale will start,
Of What is Banksy? Who is art?
You're the joke now, don't you see?
This ****** ticket lottery,
For crazy cats who play the rules
Not you poor buggers stuck in schools
Can’t press refresh at the stroke of ten
Cos that's exactly the time when
the bell rings for art to begin
The irony is lost on him.
No tickets in your grubby hand
Cos schools cant afford the broadband.
Don't look at me with dismal faces
You lot sure are going places
Yep, you're all sat on a train
Going to weston in the rain
Who do you lot think you are?
No movie queens nor a rock star
You don't fly in from LA
You don't even have a card to pay
No Damien's, No Brad. No Suze.
Pack up your dreams kids,
Born to lose.
Like a load of buckets to the factory gate
Where we'll have to stand and stand and wait
He is not Wonka, he's not your friend,
This Charlie gets nothing in the end.
So looks like we might not get in,
Stare them down kids, take ours to him.
Banksy Inc. has made these choices,
But they can't silence all our voices.
Helllooooooo Banksy?
Are you there?
Going to show these kids you care?
Open up those hallowed portals
For this lot of mere mortals?
They've brought stuff they want to show
It's really very good you know
Because they made it from the heart
Not for a calendar of street art
You know? Like how you used to be?
Before they showed you on TV.
They protest about stuff for reals,
And soon be snapping at the heels
Of all the London folk in there
Sell for a million but pretend they care.
Come on Banksy they'll be good
Take their selfies like they should.
Come on Banksy, just be nice,
They'll snap up all your merchandise
And shuffle round the park like drones
Take out pocket money loans.
Listen kids, this isn't working,
Banksy's in his rolls and shirking,
We don't need to storm the walls
We can show them we've got *****
By standing here and giving free
What they've all spent five quid to see.
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 3:47 PM UTC
(Life is living art)
AGAINST THE BRICKS
****** leans
Against the bricks
Gotham gothic walls
Left thumb hooked on a pocket of his
Faded denim jeans
Right hand caressing a carnation
Steady
Ready to go
Mr. ****** in a James Dean glow
Mean
Black leather jacket
Shiny slick like
Ghetto pothole puddles
Wet lacking rain
Only street lamp
Spot light
Backstreet dangerous
****** leans with
A flower for Ms. Green
Come hither squeeze
He waits
There in the sallow
Glow
Another shadow
Against the bricks
Graffiti Canons spray paint art
Masterpieces
Within living scenes
Cool as concrete rain
Patient as an evening breeze
Passing moments
A Smiley face
Honest pain sculptures
Poetry is exploding
Street Glean
Art full in appreciating
brick walls
In his ****** lean
Worth is in / our noticing
This
Life's living work of Art.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
Ransom to pay for every day
demands to be met
one day I'll get a free ticket
one day I'll tell the day to
stick it where the Sun don't shine
one day it'll be all mine
in the meantime
I am held hostage by
unfriendly weather and
whether I like it or nay
there's a ransom to pay.
It's early and the wind is whistling
clear in the dawn
a fawn in the garden
(must have lost its way)
another ransom?
not for me to say
one day
there'll be graffiti to
meet me on the towpath
a Banksy I could chisel off the wall
but not today
today's just a ransom that
I must forfeit.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 12:37 AM UTC
A man of mystery
A man of talent
A man who makes you think,
A man who makes you wonder what's right, what's wrong, when you thought you knew all along.
Is Banksy man or myth?
We know so little of this man who can paint with brush or spray can.
He remains hidden, unseen, unknown, a mystery.
Signing his Tag on bridges and walls,
Mocking figures of justice, highlighting the worthy cause.
His paintings are worth thousands of pounds, not all remain in tact, some get recovered and that's a fact.
Councils who do not like the message displayed, white them out in a matter of days.
None the less his fame has grown, his pictures displayed and shown in museums around the world.
Yet no one can put their hand on their heart and say I've known this man from the start.
That's why Banksy remains an enigma.
A man of mystery
A man of talent
A man who makes you think,
A man who makes you wonder what's right, what's wrong, when you thought you knew all along.
Is Banksy man or myth?
Anyone know?
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
A sad man sits in front of me in the library
He seems generic;
A used sketchbook, modern glasses, and a Banksy sticker on his MacBook.
His arms are filled with marks
black ink solemnly attempts to cover up what is underneath
But they are beautiful
An abstraction of two people kissing, entwined like the style of the art
Further up is his star sign;
Aries
Honest, courageous, passionate
Impatient, impulsive, intrusive
I don’t know if this is him;
All I know is his art, encompassing his every stroke
and carve
His left arm has a different mark
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
What happened to you?
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 8:07 AM UTC
ii
is ´ nt banksy a riot
shredding his art
after a million
i would buy him
a pint..
make´ s me proud
to be from england
lol..
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 8:39 AM UTC
you're yappy
as a drooling
sack of dogs
and as happy
as a vietnam
bombing.
you're ******
as downtown
new orleans
pretentious
as banksy
unlikeable
as amy schumer
worn and round
as a linkin
park CD
and yet
you're lovely as
a dumb *****
could be.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 4:26 AM UTC
banksy once said
"i mean, they say you die twice.
once when you stop breathing
and a second, a little later on,
when somebody says your name for the last time."
you killed me when you broke my ******* heart.
and i know you haven't said my name in months.
so i guess i'm practically six feet under.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
I wish I was a musician,
Wrote riffs for my guitar,
Earned loads of cash, looked like Slash,
And drove a fancy car.
I wish I was an artist,
Created worlds with paint,
Banksy as my bro, a huge afro,
At my feet London would faint.
I wish I was an actor,
For all the world's a stage,
I'd win awards, tread the West End boards,
And make 'portly' all the rage.
It's pants being a poet,
Scribbling odes year after year,
But I'm not flighty, I can write in my nightie,
And post it all on here.
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 8:44 AM UTC
Paper towns, they blow away.
Fall apart, as rain falls down.
People write on walls , artistic graffiti.
They sign them Banksy.
Hurricanes cause chaos.
Difficult to clean.
If I had a bonfire my paper town would burn.
All the relics would be destroyed.
I'm glad my towns not paper.
(C) LIVVI
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
A wall will never stop the spread of disease;
Even if you are called the civilized west,
Banksy won't and can't make the cries to cease.
Cries from forefront clashes, from throwing rocks...
Hand over one's heart,
We all profit off; selling outdated Glocks.
Mapping out the labyrinth tale with a frag
Minotaur's keep the fight alive in this hell
A mechanic social manipulation
With hearts of Palestine in confiscation
Teenage angst never did pay off well.
One thing to comfort the Jew,
They're going to die anyway,
And so will you.
A sky full of sulfur
Coming down on little kids.
These aren't stars,
These are toxic tears.
These aren't stars,
You carry on your flags,
What shines are shells, grenades and frags.
Misuse of weaponry, a national trait;
Once second world war victims,
Now a first world charade.
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 7:59 AM UTC
Oh, The Bronx in the rain:
Slick city stones' somber gloom
Oh late afternoon
so overcast with blues,
Navy : leaves in tinsil sheen,
Midnight : music and
Sapphires
Where jazz becomes a dancing shadow
beneath light post misty
gold.
...
Outside the bricks are just bricks
but down there
lo lovers' tight embrace
in the fallow light showers
catching all eyes keen
to their PDA
(Public displays of affection)
as well as mine wide
Attention
Peliculas and tall stories
From a brown stone perch
while traffic whirls
sleep now hurries
the city is slow as thunder rolls
loud
as blacktop oil slick roads
heavy as gutter water to
asphalt bones
This towns historic
Time stands still
In lovers hallmark corners shack
All wet in the gills,
fish kisses taught kids
how honey smacks
now that the audience is frozen
With anticipation,
binocular eyes
snapshot a Banksy / Monet
meadows of
raindrop brush strokes
chaos maelstrom
Wet dreams rivulet
All the while I am
Dry inside
Dying here!
At a pause / intently / intensely
watching
neighbors in hooded moods.
This reminds me
how it must of felt / now
in this commotion
by mere emotions
so reminiscent
of the weeping and pain
wordless script
scene not heard
inside I'm still dry and
dwelling...
In need or is it wish
beginning to purr?
Still, in this stone dwelling
I am dry inside
Trying to hide not
looking down
on those love birds,
A misty glow
and oh suddenly
how I drown
when the two finally kiss...
drowning
without.
EMPATHY.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
I might be trapped in this cupboard,
But my mind and soul wanders on its own.
They don't need legs,
Or wings,
To go anywhere it pleases.
They flew away from me yesterday
To visit you and show you my love,
To take a tour through San Francisco
With its winding slopes,
Where the mountains meet the bay.
They swam over to London,
Go spotting for Banksy artworks,
Skipped down to Russia swigging
Down that ***** halfway there to
Wash away all attachements.
But I guess the ***** wasn't enough
Cause I'm still here.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
Words on the wall.
Go with Paul.
So profound.
Like a crystal ball.
Okay, all coming back.
Should have read.
Julie, will you go with Paul.
But it didn’t.
Surely a message.
A deeper meaning.
Check the celestial phone.
A message awaits.
You ***** lying scummbag, drop dead.
Should I tell her there's only one M in scumbag.
Could this be another message.
I enlighten her.
The other M is for ************
But is it.
Is there an even deeper meaning.
The celestial phone bleeps.
I peruse the heavenly text.
Actually there should be an extra B with the extra M, *******
I see pain in her text.
I feel it myself.
There is a wanting.
Flowers and chocolates.
I feel comfort walking through the graveyard.
Knowing random people are helping me in the pursuit of love.
I throw a pebble up to her window.
Holding my mixed bunch of flowers.
Old Mrs Jones looks down, smiling.
If I was seventy, I’d do, I digress.
I bade her in, throwing the pebble up to my true love.
Who opened the window maybe a tad too early.
She screams my name.
Which was comforting in a strange way.
Old Mrs Jones looked out, recoiling in horror, knocking herself out in the process.
I realised I had forgotten the chocolates.
Darling, could you borrow me ten pounds.
Something in her one good eye told me no.
The paramedics told me to go.
The Police read me my rights.
Putting me up for the day, and the night.
Still, as the Councilman said as I was scrubbing the wall.
It’s not like you’re Banksy, is it Paul.
I felt a deeper meaning.
A thought had occurred
It would take a lot of paint.
But would be worth the pain.
I worked through the night.
Such a delight.
I threw a pebble up to her window.
Old Mrs Jones looked down at the naked mural of me, and dropped down dead.
Julie sort of squinted in dread.
But the gun in her hand.
Well, enough said.
The Police charged me with indecent exposure.
Though the court said that wasn’t quite true.
Still, the Councilman said.
I’m really impressed.
I mean, it's different.
Maybe you should have added a verse.
He stopped me scrubbing.
We bowed our heads.
As old Mrs Jones passed by in the hearse.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
I think it would be neat to be like Banksy
To leave my mark on the world, still unknown
You won't know when I come or when I've gone
And no, don't ask me to write for your honor
You can't erase truth so don't prove me wrong
It's not prossible to bend reality and twist meaning
Just listen to my voice in what you're reading
My message known, but I don't want the glory
I'd give my real name, because I don't want a mask
But I don't want to hear any of the praise
God gave me gifts, so if anything, glorify Him
And I don't care for any of the ridicule
I'll tell you right now, my words won't be lenient
I don't want my name to be heard
I want my voice to be listened to
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC