Part of making art
Is having sincere belief
That your crap is gold.
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.
Filed under Poems
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!
Filed under Poems
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.
Filed under Poems
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.
Filed under Poems
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.
Filed under Poems
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.
Filed under Poems
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.
Filed under Poems
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.”
Filed under Poems
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.
Filed under Poems
The Daily Travesty 