I will curl
Like modern day art
In the corner
Of this carti-rib cage
And try to hold on to
The little soul the world hasn’t taken yet.
I’m plastered with images
From silver screens on walls
Desktops and palm tops;
Blood, the red paint of the artistic press
Lifeless bodies of boys drowned in
There are etches of nightmares
Of burning fathers in cages,
Dead soldiers in national colours
Caught in the defence of a distant nation.
I’m brought to tears. Yet,
Government officials sign cheques
And import fast cars with two doors
Put up buildings with top floors;
While boda men work long hours
On cold roads
For a half bundle to save his twins with sickle cells
Or a quarter bundle for Rock Gin to suppress the shock
That his last born has water in her head.
There are daily promises
Eternal campaigns from hatted leaders
Daily invitations to gold sucking engagements
Art, music, and high fashion
To sedate the horror of the day.
My heart is an art piece
A canvas for politicians,
Bankers and tax men
Loose moralists, atheists, agnostics
Half lovers and null lovers
Everyone wants their ink on my cone shaped heart.
And I’m drowning out
Losing my flailing conscience
Replacing it with pseudo modern day symbolism
Of stringy hashtags of empty humour
Monologues of petty eurekas
Like sons and daughters of Princes of Bel-Air.
It’s a modern heart
The one that understands the pain
But laughs in the same vein.
Time is too short
To not call anything art.