Tag Archives: Art

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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Le’eonardo De’avinci

Yo, ‘sup homie.

I got da shizzow:

It’s a portrait I did

Of dis half-smilin’ hoe.

It’s all kinda dark

In a beige kinda style

And I figga the critics

Gonna rave for a while.

I got some new model

But wut’s dat bitch’s name?

Moana? Le’isa?

Nothing worthy of fame.

They’ll ask why’d I paint it

And wonder howso.

Too bad I was trippin’

And forgot her brows yo!

#Wurd

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Today

We are lazy-eyed romantics

Who, slothful, deign to leer

At sexy ghosts like future, past,

But seldom now or here.

We seek the worldly pleasures

That we, in moments, lack

Knowing we once had them

And hoping they’ll come back.

And like the perfect lover

The present sees us gaze

At a future that will never come

And long-forgotten days

Yet gives us still all that we need,

Supports in every way.

I write so we’ll requite the love

Of the miracle that is Today.

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And, Somewhere, A Naked Professor Sheds A Tear Over His Sushi And Immediately Regrets It…

If wishes were fishes

We’d eat way more trout,

If thoughts were diplomas

We’d have much more clout,

If logic were clothing

We’d mostly be nude,

But if teardrops were onions

We’d really be screwed.

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The Silent Poet: This Is Why We Hibernate…

Amidst the misty morning,

Atop the naïve snow,

The thin white wind blew, chilly,

‘Neath sun’s unearthly glow.

The living glass of needles

Lay beneath the stalwart fir

And I, the bear, thought all this

But, alas, could only say “grr.”

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Not Your Average Love

She was a starving art history student,

Forced by fate towards whatever was prudent,

Yet she had a temptation she could not evade…

A man, in a sense, who with her heart played.

He was the Egyptian God of the dead,

With unlimited power and an animal’s head,

Yet despite devestation he doled out at will

His heart had an urge that he just couldn’t kill.

Her focus was on just money and Monet.

All of existence was under his sway.

She spent her days in the study of cubists.

He spent his evenings just being Anubis.

Somehow the two met at a holiday party.

She thought him a bad boy. He thought her a smarty.

The exchanged numbers and met up for brunch.

She loved his mystique. He loved how her bones crunch.

Yet, deep as their love was, they each said good bye

For they’d not live together unless she would die.

So ends the tale of this starcrossed romance

Of a girl and a God, both with un-gotten-into-pants.

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