Cynic
As surreal a monument,
this sculptured miasma,
that did mean more to me,
than any piece or song
An aesthetic masterpiece,
open here for you to waste;
old joy up in smoke.
Composed on rigid canvas,
that falls in white-hot shards,
like glass when broken.
Like fiery death,
concrete, deep, pain
is all the fashion.
Why could art have balance?
When we give the dead
for free in pictures
and call it brilliance.
Let them perform!
Live angels in black
that loom and dazzle
Will film think that forgetting
life can add passion to darkness?
We know almost every seductive stroke can break us.
Strip us nude of all original thought.
WE CREATE DEMAND.
The empty instrument of the young.
Soon we’ll always write
in glorious rhythm.
Draw and sculpt
in bold graceless symbols.
And pretend it’s the metaphor
of our jilted generation.
Original impressions never hold
through the drunken dust of madness;
Painted highways of beer and cigarettes.
Scream and imagine they can hear you;
only in your dreams can you observe the innocent.
We’re all raw, wild and angry now,
and suffer in blue oblivion like a fading silhouette
We never realized how we’d feel
after the fact.
Icons set in stone, as an example of weakness.
False harmony tempts like a drug;
mock Ecstasy to pacify our souls.
How soon we yield to capture,
an experiment soon abandoned,
like our faith in one another.
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