You Can’t Feed Art To Goats

You can’t feed art to goats
They cannot tell between grass and paper,
brass and paint
It will be a waste of your masterpiece,
of your time and of your effort

You cannot coat rock with silver
Pare tins with gold
Or ask the dead about warship expecting ammunition be sold
They won’t cry at it like you did. Your tears will not translate to the dry untested tongue of another;
Like in row of pneuma. Guillotine. Heather bed.
Naturale phlegmatic.

You can’t feed art to goats
Like you can’t mix glass to water,
Container. Shrapnel. You’d have to be stupid; Alicean to drink.

“And I’ll serve you
the severed head of the lion
Can I then be king?
King of your concrete jungle?”
(Dumbzo, get outta here!)
Perilous. Nervous like acid. Downpour of rain.
Median cavemen hath no technological contribution and you still want to be one of them?

Anti-intellectualism is the dumbest thing only dumdums can get behind,
like resignation, culture suicide
an army of non-innovators with open mouths while enjoying a gentrified town, widescreen TV
cellular phones

I don’t trust goats who don’t chew on semicolons
nor cut processed trees in crazy halves
Wearing top hats, accessorizing, fake bibliopaths.

You should not feed art to goats because they aren’t wolves in here cities of stock
Trim your own hair, beard, ugly; not your neighbores’
and expect them to relax

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