i've been told
that there will be no new movements
by people who only know from books
what they will never live.
yes, in more romantic times
there were curious moustaches about,
grand painters of words
& writers of such magestic of canvas.
all those burlapped women
with their tweed cigarette holders
billowing out shiny new futures
for our tongues to recite.
we are still among you
& often hated for what we are.
for the only truth in art
is that it is what we are,
not what we do...
here's to the great pretenders!
sketch out all those histories
that you will never have.
the mundane beckons to you
while we spread out
like the fiery wings of hellish birds.
to be art is a deadly caw.