Formulaic

Oh dear reader,
A question sears a mark into my mind,
Pecked at by vexing ravens,
A query for you and all,
Artist or nay,
At which point does a style grow formulaic?
When does one become a one-trick pony?
When ones modus operandi,
Becomes your only notable feature,

A factory line from your soul,
Your work grows droll,
The same structure,
The same cadence,
The same tone,
It’s art but it’s not artful,
Passable but forgettable,
Innovation taking a backseat,
It’s a strange cycle to break,

So please tell me,
Can poetry become generic?
Or is stagnant design to be commended?
I’m asking for a friend.

Stifling Box

You detracting tyrants,
Don’t try to railroad me,
I’m not factory issue,
I’m not a homing pigeon,
Not an outlaw,
Not bound for your stifling captivity,

I’m an artist,
Your box doesn’t contain me,
I am mutable,
I am liquid,
I am herculean,
I shall slip from your cubic cell,

This killing jar,
I’ll turn it into particles,
Erupt into the world,
A fountain of prismatic ink,
Every feeling under the rainbow,
Newly at liberty to compose and create.

The Zealot

Have you seen that man?
Stood plentifully bestrewn in crimson petals,
Within a garden of fresh corpses,
A crusader amongst broken innocents,
He’s a killer like any other,
But sanctioned by those lofty spires,
A good holy soldier,

In place of prayer,
He commits to flagellation,
Pain weaving betwixt discipline,
He hears voices in the dark,
They come from dusty books,
A tome that claims divinity,
A higher morality touted in its pages,

What began as a good and humble life,
Was dismantled piecemeal by fear and hate,
Xenophobia and bigotry written as commandments,
Seeing jihads in all directions,
Knives at the windows,
The sermons were twisted to command,
And so he strikes.

Discourse

These two vocal veterans,
Battle-hardened are they indeed,
Atop opposing monolithic podiums,
They are upon the field of discourse,
Wielding scholarly tongues as arsenals,
Knights jousting in the air before them,
Fleur-de-lys amidst silver,
Words as blades,
Morning stars in each argument,

Parry and riposte,
The fronts shift as voices are heard,
Aural dogfights between gentlemen,
Neither giving too much ground,
There is decorum in this violence,
This is no bloodbath,
Who shall concede?
It matters little,
As long as knowledge is garnered by each party.

Boneyard

I see you,
Supplicants and sycophants all,
Under those predatory spires,
Within ivory gothic monsters,
A church of destruction,

Did you know you stand on sacred land?
Not of the biblical kind,
But a boneyard,
As you kneel at your oaken pews,
You stand upon graves too,

This institution buried these bodies,
It ate them body and soul,
A temple of killers,
Justified by voices in your head and from the pulpit,
An ecclesiastical superiority complex,

You stand upon corpses,
You pray,
Looking up to ghosts of gods in the sky,
Prostrating yourselves to an absent father,
The rays in the clouds are just radiation,

Each skeleton is a sin,
Committed by the alleged unprofane.

Imperfection

I was complimented once,
My work extolled,
It’s true,
A perfection praised,
Though it escapes my vision,

Is perfection real?
Is this work truly a magnum opus?
A tour de force,
Or is perfection merely perception?
Our work could be as flawed as ourselves,

One mans treasure,
Is another mans filth,
We do not share eyes,
A sistine chapel to one,
Could be an intantile scribble to another,

Perfect is a dream,
A pure idea,
That flees from us,
At the speed of light,
Escaping our covetous hands,

To my eyes,
My so-called art,
Is as juvenile as my aspirations.

No Clique

I’m the Harlequin,
An agent of eccentricity,
An advocate for the quirky,
Delightfully awkward,
Comedically weird,
Cackling through a mad world,

I’ll never be part of a clique,
A cabal of critics,
Pretentious spiders,
Tittering at others’ expense,
An artist welcomes criticism,
But not mean-spirited bile,

You can chastise,
My painted smile shall remain,
You can vilify,
I’ll still doff my hat to you,
You could lambast,
I’ll simply continue my asylum jaunt,

Do not take this as arrogance,
Nor blasted bullheadedness,
I simply wish to be myself,
No clique,
I’ll burn on,
Alone if I must,

One hopes you can too.

Regime

Hark!
Fall to your bloodstained knees,
Hear these words as you toil,
The clergy of oppression has spoken,
Protestant,
Catholic,
Or otherwise,
Seal your minds and follow our words.

God loves you,
Rationality is heresy,
Creativity is unholy,
Ideas are unhealthy,
Lovers are adulterous,
Progressives are witches,
Repeat after your clergy,
God loves you.

God cherishes you,
Bigotry is a strong faith,
Prejudice is your only shield,
Works of art are false idols,
Butchers of men are crusaders,
Your asinine resolve is stagnation,
Repeat after your clergy,
God cherishes you.

Worship your so-called god freely,
Revel in the regime,
And repeat after me,
Amen?