Humans Suffer. Not The Art?
Wants. A rainbow in their mouth.
To spew color
While elaborating the phonics
In their dialect.
They want language.
Plain and simple.
I went to the store
And bought a box of condoms.
I used one
While I ****** a prostitute.
Now she’s claiming it’s mine.
That’s a poem!
And all the Ad-Executives
Have graphic design majors.
No starving artists
Eating the horse hairs
That falls from their canvas.
To be exploited
Of their art
For Capitalism’s sake.
One can only use their skills
With as much emphasis
On the breaths we take
Inside our cubicles.
As the ones we take
Atop the Rocky Mountains.
Well. I say.
**** my poetry.
**** my art.
I believe it’s a whore.
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