Number Two: Hardcore Artist

Watercolour and pen.

Watercolour and pen.

Number Two: Hardcore Artist

A man on a bridge told me that

I was only an artist because I

could wring money from it.

He looked at my trumpet,

read my love of Bob Dylan,

and took apart what was left

of my wisdom.

He grappled with my hands and

noticed the ink underneath my

untrimmed nails.

He didn’t believe me when I

told him I studied English and Philosophy.

Just.

“I don’t believe you,” he said.

“You look like a hardcore artist,”

he warbled.

“But you wouldn’t do it if you couldn’t

make money.”

“Good luck finding your cigarette.”

You dope

You scoundrel.

“No I don’t have a smoke.”

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This entry was published on Tuesday, August 5, 2014 at 8:18 pm. It’s filed under Artwork, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

One thought on “Number Two: Hardcore Artist

  1. Pingback: Fun. Fun. Fun. Vagina. | Emily Storvold

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