The Arts: Weak


A futile exhibition
Coffee grounds pressed into tar stains
Through the same filter used yesterday

A gnawing, clawed hand
Rips clump after clump of
Neutered hair

The budget cuts have stated
That one of you must go
There is 1 bullet in the gun
Take turns

The bull crashes
Through the wicker doors
The classmates sleep
While the teacher scores

Harness and harvest
Invest and ingest

The somnambulist walks
While the artist
Forces upon closed eyes
With pitchforks
And toothpicks

The weary cannot work here
There are no set hours
No shifts
Just time compounded upon time
Working against your movements
Striving to upset
What only you
Could have crafted

Previous articleArts Week Feature
Next articleCatching Fire
Tyler works out of Peterborough, Ontario, and reluctantly attends Trent University. He loathes deeply, while drinking often. The cigarettes will soon consume his life. Read his poetry while you still can at while reading his journalistic work at this very site. I would say that he would be appreciative, but that may not be the truth.