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Tired Of Art
I'm tired of art
The lies
The pain
The bullshit
The coporations

The money
The realm
The animals
The courts
The circles

The rich
The poor
The hearbeats
The fakes
The abuse

The sexuality
The performance
I got a phonecall
Every little thing is gonna be allright

Now that beauty is in my heart
Eventhough I realize I'm just dreaming
Perhaps just a wet dream
Or not, I remember grey-haired men
And black-bearded dogs crashing through my window panes

I'm just a piece in the board game
Just pay attention
Watch me grow
Fifteen minutes multiply
We'll be together
And then I'll forget you

I love your art
Smakin' cereal
I'm tired of that art
The art
This art
Their art

Annoyed because you didn't care
Expressed because who I am, I'm allowed to, I'm permitted
Rejuvinated because of the gallery, the museum, the show, the womyn
In my flame, my heart, my head, my art

Then like a tease in the wind
She comes on to me
Like a tease in the wind
And the night engulfs her, swallows her up
And rapes me of my own dreams
And I'm left with nothing
But my art and I hear Indian music playing
Drum beats
And I see Jesus Christ on the horizon
And I ask him for my forgiveness
For art
Everything for art they tell me
They spend
They erase and take and duplicate and rip-off and cherry-blossom and
virgins and thoughts and tough-guys and homeless and gorgeous and wanna-bes
and anti-Vs and record shops and rainy london gals and new york billies and
downtown billboards and san fran surfers and alaska wives and canadian skys
and concert-goers and builders of pages and destruction stories of my life
come and gone. I still smell her perfume on my wrist.

 1999 David Greg Harth @ 296 @ 296
New York City