Artists (and their blindness)

That morning I went

to the university

with all those people

who think too much of themselves.

 

I walked on the streets

and avenues,

all dressed up in worn out shoes

and faded denim because it’s cool.

 

There’s this thing in the air of campuses,

like breathing pretension,

and I like it,

I’m part of it.

 

The students sit outside

with coffees and smoke,

Double cream and double sugar,

they’re drinking their hypocrisy.

 

They sip and they talk

about Pollock and their muse,

they think they know Warhol

because they eat Campbell’s.

 

But when they paint

they’re just pissing on canvases

and they tell you all about it

because it’s poetry for the eye.

 

They move their hands in their hair

and tell you you should care

because theirs just means so much more

than that painting with your guts all over it.

 

They think their C’s and D’s

are from being misunderstood,

they’re all struggling with their troubles

and then go home to their parents and silk toilet paper.

 

They tell you money doesn’t matter

when you’ve got art,

while staring at you

through their million dollar glasses they don’t need.

 

But they’re just blinding themselves

with their visions of Bohemia

and their bullshit complaints

about capitalism and politicians they see on TV.

 

And it makes me feel so sorry

because me too I sit and drink my coffee,

and I disagree

for the sake of being an artist.