Tag Archives: Art

Art Is Subjective

People always say

“I miss the good old days”

But I think that’s misguided

In many different ways,

Chief of which is that

Although they made so many gargoyles

And so many fountains

The two were very seldom combined,

Which means we’ve had thousands of years

That could have had gargling gargoyles

And yet we got garden gnomes.

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Art School Pays Off

Today I drew a cat.

Everyone said “Nice pig.”

They recognized it was an animal

Which, progress-wise, I think is big!

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Art

Art.

Art is when your self-expression

Is super meaningful and deep

In a way that nobody else understands.

It doesn’t rhyme

Or look like reality

Or sell in Peoria

(Or anywhere else for that matter).

It has imagery in it

Like “Salty red horse”

Or “Spider fingers”

That evoke people’s minds

But don’t make them think.

Art is for people who feel

Or who have a lot of money

That they need to launder

And also lots of wall space.

Art.

Carrier pigeon with orange sauce.

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So Ended The Artistic Career Of Coal-Eyed Jack

Once a man who had no legs

And really skinny arms

Made a statue of himself.

He didn’t see the harm,

And so he rolled three balls of snow

And stacked them one by one

Until a rabbit ate his nose

And spoiled all the fun.

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Flowers for Algernon

Someday in the future

Somebody will share

A painting so perfect

Nothing else can compare,

And most everybody

Will say “Ooh” and “Ahh”

Except for the few

Who insist there’s a flaw.

All other artwork

Before it and after

Won’t evoke the same awe

Or inspire such laughter,

Won’t bring to the eyes

The same sweetness of tears

And from then to the end

There will be the dark years

Where no art seems special

Like the ultimate piece,

So exhibits will dry up

And artists will cease.

New adventures will stagnate

When our needs are all met

So let’s just be happy

That we’re not perfect yet.

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Modern Art

Harry stood on stage,

Took a deep breath,

And said, “The,” for forty days.

Every day another voice joined

For eleven and a half weeks.

On the forty first day,

Harry stood on stage,

Took another deep breath,

And said, “World,”

And the followers waited a day

Before echoing him.

And so it was that Harry

And the multitude who came after

Sang a round, “The World,” in eighty days.

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The Elites

Who once was an ideologue

Now bears a predacious heart,

A prerequisite for leadership

In politics and art.

Who once fantasized

Is yoked by sponsors unseen,

Separate from the audience

Who now seem unclean.

Who once dreamed of changing

Now for sameness votes,

Repelling their friends,

Trapped within their own moats.

Who is no longer meek

Now learns how and why

The meek inherit nothing

If the elites never die.

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Dear People Whose Paintings Hang On The Walls Of Banks And Hotels…

Some people think art

Is how the heart speaks

And I think the heart’s saying

“Dude, your paint bottle leaks.”

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And With That Hair I’m Destined For National Leadership

If I were a Pokemon

I’d want to be Crabominable

Because no one would enslave me

And fight in a manner intolerable.

Yes, ugliness has benefits

When avoiding death is your aim.

And for you ’90s kids who say its fake:

You should play a more recent game.

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Celebrating The Freedom To Be Lousy At Stuff

All around me I see boring artwork

I hear songs and and poems I despise,

Read novels with no satisfying endings

And look at them through someone else’s eyes,

Thus what once seemed like a bunch of rubbish

From the perspective of the makers, though they’re dopes,

I know as long as we are free to make this sort of crap

We’re free from those who’d seek to crush our hopes.

So if you feel tired of the daily,

The regular routine has got you down,

Why not draw a purple line on canvas

And sell it to a bank somewhere in town?

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