Starving For Art
You're nobody until you're dead
until you're a proper victim
and the hawks move in
to tear apart
what you believe in
what you are no longer here to defend;
Life is transient
We carry it upon our backs
We at the cradle of creation
have fought for civilization
ever since time began
We are the riddle to the question
“Does water have intelligence?”
You are nobody until you’re loved
until you tell yourself,
"I am the most beautiful creature
On the face of the earth!"
Some bodies believe this and embody it,
Others deny that life exists,
living off scraps and crumbs,
just scraping by to pay our rent to do our art;
We do our art to follow our hearts
We pursue our love in the now of art
When what we really want is to be apart
without the weight of the whole world
weighing down upon our souls
Lost in the silence of indifference
striving to achieve magnificence
from herds of mediocrity,
and insignificance
selected out as the only idiot who has a gift, as if
attributed to some great god,
"It is the age of Pan!"
All the satirists follow him
some are lucky to get handouts
Others are grateful to get hand-me-downs
making recycled art of hedonists
like it is going out of style
The purists sacrifice pleasure for painting
to recreate their purity of vision,
"Statement or state",
It is the object of expression
without poise
laying prone
intestate, like Pygmalion,
Where we are deconstructed to reinvent ourselves
with psychotic drugs and popular myths,
The urban legends of graffiti protest
against manufactured consent
or free expression
and random acts of violence
City dwellers rage against machination
or fall through the cracks
to become victims and burdens on society
Freaky people fuel the world,
each one a mystery,
paints an optimistic picture for chaos rules!
Carve out our reality, not the Marquis of Queensbury
We fight, we fight and fight!
For what we believe in
We wait, we wait and wait…
For someone to acknowledge what we said,
Then one day we wake up dead...
Dead of heart, dead of mind, or just plain dead
and at the end of time the story of our art
and by some immortal act,
Our lives shift,
Our art lives on to our success,
For there is no one left to contradict it
psp © 2006
the money changers
until you're a proper victim
and the hawks move in
to tear apart
what you believe in
what you are no longer here to defend;
Life is transient
We carry it upon our backs
We at the cradle of creation
have fought for civilization
ever since time began
We are the riddle to the question
“Does water have intelligence?”
You are nobody until you’re loved
until you tell yourself,
"I am the most beautiful creature
On the face of the earth!"
Some bodies believe this and embody it,
Others deny that life exists,
living off scraps and crumbs,
just scraping by to pay our rent to do our art;
We do our art to follow our hearts
We pursue our love in the now of art
When what we really want is to be apart
without the weight of the whole world
weighing down upon our souls
Lost in the silence of indifference
striving to achieve magnificence
from herds of mediocrity,
and insignificance
selected out as the only idiot who has a gift, as if
attributed to some great god,
"It is the age of Pan!"
All the satirists follow him
some are lucky to get handouts
Others are grateful to get hand-me-downs
making recycled art of hedonists
like it is going out of style
The purists sacrifice pleasure for painting
to recreate their purity of vision,
"Statement or state",
It is the object of expression
without poise
laying prone
intestate, like Pygmalion,
Where we are deconstructed to reinvent ourselves
with psychotic drugs and popular myths,
The urban legends of graffiti protest
against manufactured consent
or free expression
and random acts of violence
City dwellers rage against machination
or fall through the cracks
to become victims and burdens on society
Freaky people fuel the world,
each one a mystery,
paints an optimistic picture for chaos rules!
Carve out our reality, not the Marquis of Queensbury
We fight, we fight and fight!
For what we believe in
We wait, we wait and wait…
For someone to acknowledge what we said,
Then one day we wake up dead...
Dead of heart, dead of mind, or just plain dead
and at the end of time the story of our art
and by some immortal act,
Our lives shift,
Our art lives on to our success,
For there is no one left to contradict it
psp © 2006
the money changers