Artisan by Dan Joyce
©2016
Post 70
Smog
Smog… rolls through the clouds blackness and burrows into the lungs of an infant like the smoke of a second hand cigarette. Booze, weed, heroine on every corner the child grows to know death Jonesing fixing perplexed dignity of religious political propaganda feed the fix feed the fix feed the fix. Weight loss facial deformities compulsive sex. My God! What the hell is in this stuff? Drink left on the corner of a bar room wolf poppy freedom that’s right a little more red then the dark tones add the white I can’t stand DuChamp he doesn’t know what art is he’s a con a hustle a dollar an anarchist Joey Ramone Johnny Lydon Joe Strummer the decline of western civilization and smog… black grey brown dirty shit smog. I don’t care about a drunken poet Bukowski, Poe, Morrison rather I wish to see the spirit the living within.
“My art is emotional”
“Obviously”
Do you believe in James Joyce of the Joyce clan, dead souls living in your genes grandmother’s china paintings on the mantle blues beige ochre roses pansies periwinkles so pretty… oh, so pretty. Grandmother Craw painted one side of her canvas darker than the other, always. “That is good composition. That is how the professionals do it.” Smog!
We dance to a movement
To a rhythm of the street
We walk like a chorus line
we move to America
we are bold… we are beautiful
we are beats
Lost in the cabin of dissidents
Crowded by the fire
Told to refrain by conservatives
Dancing our desires
Whatever happened to William Burroughs?
To Karouac, to Cassidy?
To Ginsberg and Whitman?
Who shall be the first
To throw this stone?
That America
Is a beat corruption
A beat that is driven
A beat the is insane
The movement of all movements
Torn between two twin
Political forces
Protecting the interests of the rich
And the other rich
Is nobody in America sincere?
Whatever happened to Hoffa?
To Guerva… to Lenny Bruce?
What is left the meaning
Of leftist?
What is left in the beat?
Boom boom ta boom boom ta
Boom ta boom ta
Boom crash!
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