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
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.