Susan Marie
 


She is a published author and active in the entire Arts scene in Western New York, U.S.A as well as being a recording engineer/producer for "Think Twice Radio"  http://www.thinktwiceradio.com she currently write weekly reviews on art and the music scene in New York.


A Poem by Susan Marie


Art Will Be The Death Of Me


Art will be the death of me
in a city with no illusions

not by ear nor noose
or by gunpowder bang
not hang me upside down in some
belfry rafters on Allen.

no.

Art will be the death of me
in the halls and walls of babes and dolls
in gritty city streets
and gutters that retreat
to the feet that romp a stomp beat
of blood and death
and that concrete crystal meth

Art will be the death of me
in lines on mirrors on floors
and copper colored spires and doors
closed and crumbling upon holy ground
drenched in Native blood

the caskets they cannot hold the talking dead
like the elms and the birch
the oak and the fir
the leaves they leap an early death
and springtime blooms through ice

only here
i say
only here

Art will be the death of me
he said to me
he did
and i agreed
i said it is noble to die for what one believes in

and he shook his head
hung it low
said Death is Art - Art is Death
the full circle superimposed
on lunar ebbs and tides
the push the pull
a sprint for the traffic light
stop start run
put your foot on the gas and go

Yes, Art will be the death of me
in bars and guitars
drum beats with bass clef boom
the smell of stale beer and smoke
no testament to choke
that these bright eyes
will be remembered
for my words
my face

how i spoke

the streams and seams of time
are long here
and a needle jacks the tracks
and keeps time like a metronome
on skin to vinyl thin veiled tears of fleece
yet it is here i find peace
in the stench of meat and bones
starving drones
spoken words and strums

i belong in this beautiful maddening haze
days of drinks to please
the spider webbed veined disease
while chalk lined streets
force me on my knees

for Art.

Oh, Art . . .

will be the death of me.
have always envied Michelangelo.

Not that I have met him
but in my mind's eye,
I see David

standing

in all his glory.


His pectorals and abdominals

intact

and Mother Mary
cradling her son
frozen in time

an ice princess.


No one ever noticing

the woman

and the crows feet
that hide beside her eyes.

Art Will Be The Death Of Me


Art will be the death of me
in a city with no illusions

not by ear nor noose
or by gunpowder bang
not hang me upside down in some
belfry rafters on Allen.

no.

Art will be the death of me
in the halls and walls of babes and dolls
in gritty city streets
and gutters that retreat
to the feet that romp a stomp beat
of blood and death
and that concrete crystal meth

Art will be the death of me
in lines on mirrors on floors
and copper colored spires and doors
closed and crumbling upon holy ground
drenched in Native blood

the caskets they cannot hold the talking dead
like the elms and the birch
the oak and the fir
the leaves they leap an early death
and springtime blooms through ice

only here
i say
only here

Art will be the death of me
he said to me
he did
and i agreed
i said it is noble to die for what one believes in

and he shook his head
hung it low
said Death is Art - Art is Death
the full circle superimposed
on lunar ebbs and tides
the push the pull
a sprint for the traffic light
stop start run
put your foot on the gas and go

Yes, Art will be the death of me
in bars and guitars
drum beats with bass clef boom
the smell of stale beer and smoke
no testament to choke
that these bright eyes
will be remembered
for my words
my face

how i spoke

the streams and seams of time
are long here
and a needle jacks the tracks
and keeps time like a metronome
on skin to vinyl thin veiled tears of fleece
yet it is here i find peace
in the stench of meat and bones
starving drones
spoken words and strums

i belong in this beautiful maddening haze
days of drinks to please
the spider webbed veined disease
while chalk lined streets
force me on my knees

for Art.

Oh, Art . . .

will be the death of me.


(c) Susan Marie

 


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