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Poem By: Billy Alsbrooks 


O’ the tyranny 

The tyranny imposed by the tyrant of the senses 

We’re mere plebes 

Plebes and slaves to Art’s selfish demands

Must we beg?

Beg for emotional mercy?

How long shall we suffer from her arousal?


No one knows what they’re doing 

Yet the imposters play their part

They’ve become the magicians 

The masters of pretending 

Pretending to capture what doesn’t exist 

But their just pawns 

Pawns to the art that possesses them 

The art that uses them to do it’s bidding 


Art is mind 

But she fails to mind her own business 

Her genius is getting us 

Getting us to believe in the illusions  

Believe in such a way that we give birth to them 

We acknowledge the existence of our own lies

Therefore, we shall not make her out a liar 

But can we really own what she’s offering?

Can we buy what her lips are selling?


Art is death 

Death to the peace of our conformity

She’s the funeral

Funeral that ushers in new rule

The pallbearer that carries the casket of yesterday 

What world shall we now inherit?

What will the sunrise of tomorrow bring?


Art is a crime

A crime of stealing from the imagination 

Just a thief who seeks to rob

Rob the emotions of all who glance at her


She toys with our heart

Fondles our feelings

Penetrates our skull

Molests our spirit 

Her fingertips the very genesis of perversion


She lusts to stir

Stir what hasn’t been touched 

Hasn’t been felt 

Hasn’t been known by know it all


Shall we lie in her bed tonight?

Shall we consummate the marriage with her?


Art seeks a partner 

A dance partner 

Someone brave enough to war

War against the boundaries and rules put upon her


For Art is but a tyrant

The tyrant that overthrows all tyrants 

She is the mother of all Revolution 

And makes no apologies for it


Art is a runner

She runs towards danger, taunting man’s fears with a flashlight 

Who dare come to her throne room?

Who will share the reflection of her truth?


Art is an adulteress 

Longing to wrap her legs around the sleeping

The sleeping minds of society 

Those who have failed to awaken to her version of reality 


She is medicine 


The vaccine for emotional disease 

Art is our path from mental illness to enlightenment 


She waves the flag of liberation 

But the thought slaves are slow to embrace her 

Slow to believe 

Believe that her motives are pure

Who can trust the untamed?

Who can get their hands around the new?


Art is stubborn 


Secure in who and what she is 

That makes her seductive 

Yet she pays us no mind

We can’t tell whether we’re her family

Family or victim

Her muse or enemy

Yet we seek her heroin 

The heroin of her conversation 

Our eyes and ears infatuated with her tone

Her voice

Her voice speaks to the soul 

The soul beneath the soul 


Art is a prison 

A prison that holds us behind the bars of questioning 

Questioning everything we know

Know and have accepted as real 


She is a rapist 

Raping us of our innocence

Shattering our paradigms 

We can’t leave 

We can’t escape

For to leave her would be to cut off our own limbs 

To put out our own eyes

To remove the passion from love 

To remove the life from living

Who can resist her mouth?

Who is immune to her virus?


Her taste is forever 

Her perfume is permanent 

There’s no going back to what we were before her 

For Art has changed us

Transformed us

Challenged us to become what we’ve always been

Art is the lie

The lie that makes truth worth living 

Tyrant of the senses…