Dennis this is art

Atlantic cousin with eyes in armagedon

I can hear his gritty chicken shack
Southern philosofizin
And recognised echos of yokel England
In the when we lived near Oxford days

"Man there are nuts in every generation
And if the cranks have their way
We'd be livin in a town called Anarchy
And if were not all on the same boat
Well
Its like you can't let a little brotherly ruck
Split a whole family
Someones gotta hold the line
Like say your pa would
Someone to look up to "

I'd left the States by that time
But I heard he'd joined up
And never returned

I cried a simple song
Even though I had no faith in his words
Nor shared a common purpose
Save moving a few bits of wood

And many years later
I came to see the weakness
Of my own ability
Its lack of accomplishment
But most of all
It didnt fullfill in the smallest way
How I felt
This is certainly the greatest dillemma in art
And I bet even Shakespere, even Bach, and Rembrandt
And Da Vinci and maybe even old Michaelangelo
Felt it

I took the crooked rhyme
I let it go
Smaller go smaller
Cascading down the wells of silence
Slow swoops and loops
It turned to face the greenstone
In the reducing speck of finite distance
I watched its small white form enveloped in the dark centre
I heard it scream at the damp walls
Scream at the damp walls
And I heard each stone chant in answer
Chant in answer
Like gospel
Like the chants out of Africa
Like the drum drum drum play
Rooted in the very early core
The heartbeat of the existential human
And I felt it
I felt it
I felt it
I felt it
Which is all art needs
To be