Paint Or Die

Cesspool swimmers with personal trained backstrokes gulping in stagnant water pissed in by baby boomer generation x millennial and dinosaur extinctions.

Olympic size pools holding horror and dreams drown deep down through lines of philosophicalisticisms and history book madness and dead sea scroll parchments with ghost fingerprint despair.

Kafka absurdities pile higher than a tower babel built on golden sand.

Truth and art and the human core fades.

And big men and big women and big people dance on graves and bones and slobber on each other in vile bank account orgies.

There are real voices full of gravel that speak through windpipes of pure solitude and the blades of grass are nourished by their richness and the wind itself feels humble and carries the words and nature waits for more to be spoken.

A great loss as the ground shakes and rarity is eaten by gluttonous thirsty radar blips. And the poem dies and the art dies and the song dies and the voice dies and the painting dies and even the easel is swallowed by the mouth of robots.

Ancestors beckon and levy hope that can't be cast from deep ground. And we cannot hear them.

And the art dies. And the truth spoils as forgotten wine.