The artist as we know him, is dead, he has passed.
We as a generation will see no Picasso, Rembrandt, Leonardo nor Dali emerge from our access and ability to share our hipsterism.
Art, however, has taken on the greatest socialist approach, therefore art, not as we have known it will survive under a new guise.
The artist however as a person, as an entity, a star will never re-emerge.
Thank you, Instagram, Facebook and Flick-R.
The room is so full of smoke i cannot even see the faces around the table,
the music is louder than hell, and the dance moves are non coherent,
there is a beautiful blonde, a full lipped brunette and my two lovers on either side of me, lisa smokes as her husband is in greece,
morgan laughs and jon dances, josienne is drunk and happy, and she thinks not of her fathers funeral,
we are happy here, we are limitless and have no expiration date, youth, alcohol, and cigarettes, we are forever, we are together.
Grey room, and you are on the green chair with no cushion,
you smoke a cigarette to calm what i have done to you,
god you look pretty, prettier than my ex wife,
and i lay there on the bed naked and hard, tired and sweaty,
you look like an angel with cut wings,
my body cries for sleep but my mind races with your pulse from across the room,
ill destroy you, and you will sleep messed and naked without wanting to,
god you are pretty right now, and i am quiet, till the morning my dear,
till the sunrise.
Every time i am with you i want to leave you,
every time i think i know you i don’t,
every time i meet you i meet someone i dislike,
every time i meet you i meet someone i love,
i hate meeting you as i hate you,
i love you, i do, wholly, i kill you and i inspire you to kill.
love and killing.
Death and company is milk and honey.
Toi, who i love more than you know, i miss you so when i leave,
and when i leave i long just for your feel,
no woman can match you, no man could be stronger,
you are my one true love of six years,
my wife,
my love,
my everything and my grey,
ma ville, ma belle ville.
Montréal, comme je t’aime, comme je te ne quitte pas jamais,
toujours la plus belle femme du monde, sale et gris,
mon amour,
Ma montréal, je t’aime.
God you are a mess, a broken flower a shattered vase,
akin to desperation and a little need,
but you are beautiful and crass and hurting,
and i can see your path,
i am no poet,
just one who has unwillingly lived beyond his years,
with a history of love, pain and passion surpassing despair,
i want to hold you and let you cry into me,
as i could take your pain and wanting,
i mean, this is my role as shepard for the weak no?
Going somewhere i have been before,
with someone i never have,
with thoughts i have had
with having never been.
with, this someone.
A packet of red gauloises, a bottle of red wine,
a red dress, and a bloodied red nose,
a red couch against a red wall,
your red lips and a red sparrow,
An ex-wife of sorts.
Freedom is wild,
pure and selfish.
And kind of expensive.
A black scar on the left hand,
A turquoise ring on the right,
A red shirt upon the chest,
and black jeans around two legs.
Green eyes and dark hair.
A black heart and a grey soul.
Abel to create this dark prose,
and at the same time be so full of love.
Funny.
zebrasindenver 