This is Art

Splintered into cold showers
Looking at the hounding walls
Screaming at me every waking hour
Like eyes looked like they were
Staring through barbed wire
Cutting against the skin
Like Jesus to a wire

Burning a reef above his head
And the ropes tied behind his back
Your suppoesd to be an artist
Screw voices tightening taps in my head
I looked out with my eyes burning
A rough rugged shrugged blue

I am an artist
I just don't want to follow you
And your identicate fits
With your identicate Tracy Emin rip offs
And stuck up false presentions
Of how we are to identify with ourselves
Without words rippling of corrections
To be made and how games are meant to be played

With the snob gobblins and ta ta parades
Screaming yippeee yo yippee yay
What a fantastic display
Of plastic hearted emptiness
Said with the sneers
With an una toneable sense of jeering

This is Art with a deadpan certification
You can't bend the rules
Like the the box you have as walls!

By Jeffrey Johns 30/7/2009

The Bridge

I find myself
Stood on the edge
Of this white bridge
The tears streaming on out
Of my blanket eyes
As the evening coldness
Just bights this lonesome feeling
As the crush just broke my heart

The only thing that gave me warmth
Was the waters swirling
Beneath my feet
The broken cries I give out
As desperation sweeps
Across this mind
With the voices
In my head calling out
Wanting me to jump on down
As I find myself clinging
Onto the white metal
Barriers at the edge of the Bridge

I take one stiffening breath
As the cold wind hits my face
Wondering why did I
Have to caught up in this place
And be born with a softness in heart
Thats cares
And gets burned all the time
So the coldness stains me
Picking off my hairs
As all the sense of smiling
Is drained on out
by the car crash
Of this hearts ride

If I had somebody
To give me a hug
A warmth and sensitivity to talk
Me through the mess in my head
Pulling on these lonesome voices
The heart strings sting
As I was bent over the edge
Because I had fallen
For bambi's eyes
Which drove like a stake into me

This cold heart just beats
Its final tones
A stair at the swirling undertones
The only sign of warmth
Is coming from the river bed
As I can see the only smiles
Fall on your face
When I am burried in box
with a six foot bed enclaved
So I wave bye bye
And take the final step
to cast myself away from this stress

Maybe there is something better for me
If I open the door
From this great hight
Would there be something of supprising
As I feel the voices try an talk me out
But all I can hear are
Ones of self doubt
Like the monsterous
person that I can be

So let me will out
And take my final bow
As the curtain are calling
For met me to fall on out!

by Jeffrey Johns 10/6/09

WHO KILLED ART

WHO KILLED ART?

I am Art
I feel like I am hitting my head against a brick wall
As every time I stumble and fall
With ever present stances of disatisfaction
Playing upon my every reaction
As events slap me in the face with a cold neck brace
I can not help but think that my face is out of place
And I can not help but feel disgraced
As everything seems to blow all over the place
As there goes the optimist of the human race

Whats that he has special needs creativity as his friend
Other would sneer and condisend towards me
We cant have you as one of ours
They soured because creativity is on your boards
They would wrap tongues and twist around my wrists urging me to slit them

So we all will laugh at his funeral they all jeered
And that is where they all claimed to know him and his colourfuls glory
For Art was a nerdy kid with strange complexions and no sence of pride
As his story had been washed away with human tides of hystory
Like snowy blurs of colour fading to grey
As they burdoned me with diluting cheap champaign
People walked around stairing at empty cases and frames
With a never ending sence of distaste
You could see their eyes buzzing thinking
Did I Kill ART?

With worrying tones placed on their faces Arts crittics would race
with no ending to senses of who could I crittic next
And treat with X-ray Spex
As looked at those labled in the different line
Whilst singing who will step out of line this time?
As they burried me with a jolly ho
And the sounds of Corks blew and flowed with chardoniegh bows
Lets start dealing they all squealed with nasty undertones
As they had all hid away their Van Goughs Picassos and Renoires with Monets
With their mixed up memoires
Arts long term crittics began started to bleed with the green of cashes deadly gleame
As they would pause to think his only disability was his Creativity

We should not encourage this the Joe Public squealed
As they yealded all plans to burn pictures and paintings
Smash all Crockery to bring about destructive glee and cap the hands of creativity
As their faces wriggled with uncontrolled freedom of glee
Demonstrating how Arts death had lead to prosperouse deeds
Of marketing simple image needs to those to conform with ease
But there is still one question perplexing me and that is
Who Killed ART?

Death of the Optimist

DEATH OF THE OPTIMIST

Ladies and Gentlemen I want to make an anouncement
In the corner is the death of the Optimist
Calling on all Mourners ready to recite the hopes of his life
As he watched it washing around to paupers
Lacking from funding and appreciated hands
To build something that stands out these bare hands
And the creative words that he slurred with the burning finger tips
Lets halk them off they cried with jelousy and careless bodies
Wanting to stop and control everything with a jot, jot, jot

So we burried the Optimist with all the smiles that he bore
timbered up in an oak framed box with all his woulds, could and coulds
Cooped up into his lasting memmories of creativities In the labours glee
that brought about sunshine smiles long evapourated to the pennies rolling out of pockets
As the funding was shutting down like a cap on creativities crown
Oh so we will make you all drown
because you come from the same town as Van Gough, Monet and Picasso or Renoire
With all the other artists lofts and paintbrushes in the air
And scream we are writers not fighters
Painters not surplainters of flse pretences
As we find creativity wanting to be hung drawn a quatred

So lets Laugh at the Optimists grave
And say how good it was for us to make creativity our slavoury
As we indulged into the mundane copying of the want to be's for the pennies to ease
Because creativity is seen as a deadly disease
We dont design for people with differences to breath on the same terms as everybody else
Oh god theres a spastic with the creativity disease lets tax every breath he breathes
Lets face it we are all charities in need
The Optimist would plead tears
Please give me some spare change to makes this worth many smiles
Because all he wants to do is live and breath with the freedom of fresh air