Parody.
Comedy and tragedy and I forget the point-
I write to express myself and almost got lost in the unknown approval of the past that I have had.

Parody, for I gave in almost too quickly but if I almost gave in- isn't it the same thing?

Chasing fame like a savage dog I nip the heels trying to get a taste of that which I have never known- the lesson is learned.

I am not beyond the ego. I let myself slip and almost forgot the important thing- expressions- I shocked myself.

Humbled again, I'm sure I will forget again.

I write because I have the urge to write, it is not a choice, not a hobby, not a distraction, it's a very real bite that gnaws at me and so I wear its teeth down and quell the noise in my head.

Chasing fame does nothing but block out the real expressions and thus I feel no satisfaction.

The work comes first.

The world's most expensive paper shredder.
When we try to market art we must beware of the artists who swim in the dark waters.

We got Banksy'd again- and it was beautiful.

A room of shocked faces and silent groans, fear and disgust filled the room as the well-to-do- watched value turn to art and art into a story.

It's no longer a thing that is, but a thing that was- and was should be the way art is.

Art is a free thing- and yet the artist must sell their art to survive and thrive, yet how can we justify selling the thing we claim to be free, is it only in pretentious tongues?

The value of art is not what it sells for, but more of what it means to the crowd before it.

In for a penny in a for a pound, destroy the value and create something more, bring art back to its roots so that we may admire it for what it is.

"The urge to destroy is also the urge to create"- Banksy- Picasso- Bakunin. "

The words we leave behind the loved ones- things we never said.
If only for a moment an "I love you" could've saved it all.
"I miss you" "I'm sorry"
These are the phrases that haunt us and yet everyone has them.
We're really not so different if we feel the same and leave the same phrases unspoken.
Regret is a mask we all seem to wear and so we all look the same, sheep in a herd of wolves when they come out to speak their mind and utter the phrases we only want to say.

The words we leave behind grit the path and allow those after us to venture further than we had the strength to.

If I could I say I'm sorry, would it have even mattered?
Maybe it's better that I leave the words unsaid, the unknown future is as unknown if the words are said or not, outcomes may differ but does it matter?

Hindsight is twenty-twenty but since I can never see the other outcomes, do they matter anyway?

Sometimes allowing things to fall is the only way to rebuild.

I speak like a slave to remind those who have forgotten that in their chosen lack of memory we can find those who still live in chains.

I speak like to a king to show those who believe that they are not of class that money and birth do not dictate what we become.

I speak in tongues to show those who lack faith that sometimes having it simply means trusting it.

I speak like a child when I need to convey my playfulness, and when I am scorn or anger I become the parent speech.

Lacking the knowledge to bridge the gaps of social and human connection, I find myself speaking a language that everyone seems to have forgotten.

When the milk of human kindness turns sour so does our spit to venom as we sink our fangs into one another hoping to survive the pack and sit atop the bone pile.

I find myself speaking a language I did not know until I knew what it was called, and by that point I was already jaded to my fellow humans.

Language, I inked it on stone as I gave up and walked away, leaving everything to understand how I was speaking for the next linguist to uncover.

You saved me one day.

You didn't even know it, you came out of nowhere and showed it was two against the world.

I was born an only child but you became a brother by blood, as we aged together I stood as the best man at your wedding, you were there when my mother passed.

I became godfather to your child. You became my oldest friend.

When you told me you were sick and she had left you because the bills were too much, I helped you as much as I could.

When you wanted to feel like the old you again, I brought out the poker chips and turned the music on.

The virus was spreading and all I could do was standby and watch,
Watch you wither away.

I picked your kid up from school, took her to the mall, took her to ice cream and to see her mother.

She asked about you and her words sounded bitter.

My girlfriend and I would always stop by just to see how you were doing, pizza, movies, anything to try and act like you weren't fading.

The day you died is the day I lost a brother and became an old child again, and now the leaves fall on you grave and I stop by once a month to keep you updated.

Your little girl like animals, she wants to be a zoo keeper, your ex regrets leaving and not being strong enough to stick around.

Now that you're gone we all feel the absence of your laugh, the sting of your wit.

You saved me one day, and when you needed to be saved I could only watch you wither away.

**** cancer.

What lurks beneath the visible waves.

The teeth graze me, the tentacles envelop me.

I am drowned, cast away, I am adrift in the big blue sea without land.

The sun mocks me, I am parody. I am anxiety.

Fear of the unknown and crushing sorrow, the ferryman knows this sea for he lurks beneath and travels the rivers and undercurrents of those unlucky enough to find themselves lost on rogue waves.

Sanity wears thin as I drift along that silent and demanding void.

What lurks beneath those waves, mirrors of my own future for the unknown is just that.

The not knowing is the worst part.

And from the dirt I return,
Masked up and on

Dead men tell no tales so I had to reach back into the well with my shovel and bring out the bones of the poets before me who spoke too little, they remain silent heroes with low book sales.

The pen is mightier than the sword, I went Out for Blood and spilled as much of my own as anyone else, the battlefield was littered with bodies and thoughts, ghosts of the unlucky.

We grow or die, adapt or survive. The Jester mask- I wear it with it pride.

This is the resurrection of a thousand dead thinkers who got lost to time,
Some had their work plagiarized, that’s what’s known as a crime.
I ring the bell for who it tolls cast their names on my list, I drink to remember and to forget.

I say a prayer before their names, unmarked talent in a shallow grave.

Bring out your dead because the hacks, fakes and plagiarists need to see some skin before they try to take more flesh again.
They pose art, I recreate crime scenes, they have a new book on the burner cooking, I’ll Hannibal them as I roast them over the open fires of creativity.

You think this is easy?

You want the fashion, fame, money and house?
What about start realistic, one light on, a cup of forty-nine cent Wendy’s chili and a rent check that’s overdue.

While people bleed, sweat and carve their art out, you come along and pick it apart, then take what you want and call it “art”
You’re a hackjob wackjob whose too busy jacking off, I wish artists had a Mafia so you could get Whacked off.

You stole the words right from out of my mouth, I think its time to show all these “artists” what a bleeding heart is all about.
Mel Brooks said “everyone steals, you just have to know what to steal” he didn’t mean ruin someone else by taking their core ideas and sticking your name all over it, it’s soulless ***** like you that make me sick, as I go to cough I let the leash the slip and the hounds rush out to junk the bodies of the soulless majority who make a living off of someone else’s paycheck.

It’s work, it’s real, it takes time, effort, energy and dedication and then you come along and steal, I get it. You want what you can’t have, problem is- you can’t recreate it so you’re a one trick pony with a lame leg who hasn’t got a clue. Your autograph reads “Elmer” because you get turned to glue.

We’re not the polite socialite artists who stand around and blow smoke up each other’s *****, we’re too busy to hang around and wax whimsical, we need to know where our next meal is coming from, you just wanna talk Kafka, flash cash like Hoffa, the Jester is here to show you the way to your coffin.

I Spray Paint the Manifesto in your town.

In the right light I have angels wings and a golden halo, but the mirror behind me shows the devil horns and spiked tail, duality in man hyding in plain sight, I flipped the coin and you lost the toss, now you’re dragged out of sight.
Out of sight and out of mind, the lack of you doesn’t hurt the community, when one hack fades another one takes their place but they all look the same so don’t worry about the continuity.