The Artist And The Poet Poem by Floyd Crenshaw

The Artist And The Poet



he looked to me
'what do we have to drink? '
i looked around
'not much, but we have
enough cans for a few bored goats'
he smiled
'it's time we do something
and not sit around
sober.
this is too much...'

he is right
it is too much
too much to sit with
too much to live with

'we need love, '
i said.
he agreed.
'but i want sex, '
he added.
i agreed.
'either would be nice, '
i concluded.

we sighed.

the artist plants
in oiled hides.
the poet plants
in a subtle cottage.
existence is
some what futile
to both.

still they
inhabit the land and
bury mines.

to protect and promote
nature
found by the most
childish of men.

their bodies launched,
landing unharmed
on the edge
of desperation
and the calm
of all this
nothingness

oh,
so
close.

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