Monday, March 4, 2013


written with exhaustion by jake kilroy.

with these grand libraries of catalogued regrets
and the dirty laundry lists of songs, movies, and books
that twenty-somethings can't hear, watch, or read anymore,
you'd think that these college grads would know better
when they claim they built empires as teenagers.

as if the cocaine couldn't speak for itself,
as if the notepads wouldn't cough up secrets,
as if the closets would ever let photographs burn,
the world has to admit that it's going to be lead one day
by romantics posing as priests posing as poets posing as junkies,
all under the weather, holding an umbrella they call "youth."

these are small talks cutting themselves up as philosophy.
like snowflakes done in a kindergarden class before christmas,
this is ease and convenience dressed up as depth and magnificence.
using art as an excuse and galleries as distractions,
these are consumers that bought pens and paintbrushes
to sit on their shelves only to point to them
whenever they need a lover or an escape.

there are words that are the bulk of feigning wisdom (see clich├ęs).
shall we keep doing this until our mouths are dry?
what then, we speak of wandering the desert?
we know pain. we invented the word.
we just didn't experience the sensation.
these are controlled burns at best.
at worst, it's just one more artist
who thinks he's a martyr
who thinks he's a saint
who thinks he's a god
who thinks he's a man
who thinks he's an artist.

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