I want that Degas just for her.
I know how she likes it on the wall.
Dirty talk, she calls it a form of art;
Who am I to disagree, the way I paint the fucking scene,
Original no forgeries
High-value art, I am the king,
But I don’t accept a crown – That pomp just not for me
They say I am a mountebank, I say this life I live ain’t free
but it can’t be crime the way she gives it to me
There would be times she washed the dishes like she was washing a new born child. It honestly drove me crazy, I just wanted to do them for her, with all my vigor; I couldn’t waste time – But I get it now. I find myself holding a dish with the water running slow, my hands in control, and smiling. I know I shouldn’t but I ask anyway, was this enough? Did I do it enough, did I speak the names that mattered as often as I would like to now?
I could summon the rain, The Great Wave off Kanagawa,
Don’t your life just feel the same,
The way you wake up and smell the Self Portrait of A Drowned Man
Talkin’ craft is something I do fast
Breakin’ the Bread like it’s my Last,
Got it spread Vitruvian Man
Stepping out the Memory of the Garden at Etten,
I more miss Eden – I snuck out while she was sleeping
Is it bad that I still sleep easy?
Close my eyes and hear The Scream
Bought this spot with my Angel in Green,
She steps in the room looking like the Mona Lisa
Future so bright, priceless as a Starry Night
Now let The Three Musicians play it nice and slow
Pour the drinks like it’s Hemingway’s last call
And tell me all about how you feel art
How could anyone blame her? All she wanted was to connect with something, all she wanted was to feel; And I don’t blame her – All these nerves, all this flesh, and god damn what use is it all if you’re not arrested by the tides and moon to the point that you’re covered in sand as the water washes over you; Listening to it all crash like clockwork ebb and flow.
It took me a bit to slow down and simply live these moments, but I’m glad I did