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  You are @ HomeAdults Poetry

Poetry

Source: Adults

Author: jonny graham

Title: Street Artist.

Getting down to it,
no other way,
in amongst other peoples footsteps,
in the cracks,
to the measured beat of contempt.
On the floor,
in the dirt and dust,
scuffed to death,
grime under more grime,
buried under layers of time,
in the security of another pointless exercise,
in a corner,
on the street,
gaffer taped in squares.

Some people go straight
from school to university.
I went straight
from the streets to prison.
I self-educated myself
in a library of convicts,
searching for answers in books.
I found all the answers
to my own questions.
The university boys are still
searching and seeking.
They always will.

The smell of the street
consists of frying bacon
and Bob Dylan music.
The voice of Rimbaud
and the limp of Kandinsky.
The subway sect beat
and the emo scene girls
who take mirror pictures of themselves
in lonely bedrooms
and call themselves goths
on minority websites.
The laughter of the Sex Pistols
and the tears on the face of the Mona Lisa.
The new wannabe Dadaist poets,
people who think it's fashionable
to portray themselves as poets,
honestly pal...
...you haven't got a fucking clue.

The petty squeals of repression,
the retorts of suppression,
that come in waves
of succession.
The smile on the face
that you put there,
through words or drawing, both are art.
Not because you wanted to,
but because you just did,
and you don't really know why,
but happy people make other people happier,
and a smile costs nothing.

And Hell is not about this,
despite popular opinion
in these pessimistic times,
it's not about the damned ghosts walking
and watching the faults
of every shuffling mortal soul,
dragging themselves, in a grey monotone style,
through never ending Mondays
and forever stretching Tuesdays, etcetera,
just to survive
and make it to Friday night,
when they light the blue touchpaper
on the rocket out
of the compression chamber,
ten millimetres above the eyes.

Just to escape.
to get away once in a while,
to cast off the manacles of conformity,
can be good for the soul.
To rub knees on brushed cement.
to draw with colours,
held in chalk-encrusted fingers,
on the walkways of life itself.
To merge ideas and abstract concepts
into one great masterpiece,
flowing in a tide of bright dust.

You can stand and look at it,
stand on it if you want,
watch it move,
see it live,
feel the vibrancy.
Five hours ago it was grey flagstone,
now it is a temporary work of art.
All it took was a box of coloured chalk,
and street talent.
The rain will come,
and wash it away.
But it was there.
When it was there.




Published on writebuzz®: Adults > Poetry
 

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