Art Makers 

my first wannabe-master was the      
che-guevarra look-a-like painter 
who in the late 90's let himself 
get stuck with this prostitute 
and a drug smuggling route 

courtesy  of the  Bulgarian mafia 
he died like a spineless mosquito 
in is own jeroen bosch painting 
 
I met a colleague poet  
with in his eyes the absolute black 
his favorite book was cloud in trousers 
by Mayakovsky with the M of 
mysterious from the morphine alphabet 
 
there still is this colleague poet 
who muffles away the cum stains on his shaky  
recital paper with buttered excuses 
a poet who wins one slam after the other 
a slam is a small competition 
average poetry recited to judges 
who smell like steak 
 
there was this Slovenian street clown 
who gave workshops in building high riding bicycles  
in murky squatting houses 
who with a one-snared instrument 
wanted to copy the vibrating signal of the moon 
 
there was this local city poet with lordosis 
who survived all the doom and disaster 
until a small mistake in diagnosis 
his favorite lines written in tunnels and  
on garbage trucks 
 
there still is this lisping poetess  
with big ears and Cinderella thoughts 
who these days starts every poem with 
once upon a time 
 
there was a man on a roof 
there was a roofing tile stuck in her snatch 
and then she formed a thought around that 
 
there where her many boyfriends 
of which one had warned her about  
using words like roofing tile 
and that she had understood oyster 
and that it was funny to write  
about this misunderstanding 
 
and that another boyfriend then said: 
that's a cheap way to make everything funny 
you take an ugly building 
piss against it 
skip away on a skippy ball 
and have it filmed by a girl  
with down syndrome 
while you let some autist make the music score for it, 
you call the movie estrogen  
and write another vague poem about it 
 
there was this new-age witch with a healthy clam 
who told me I was a born performer 
and that I could get away with anything 
if I dressed scantily. 
 
there was the old school poetry slammer who found Jesus 
 
there was the coke sniffing poet on his fixed gear bike 
 
there was this farmer poet who attracted rain 
 
there was this German queer with 
dry camels in his expired passport face 
 
there was the night man who ate jazz who had jazz 
who wrote jazz who read jazz who stayed jazz 
 
there was the pipe smoking poet with 94 versions 
of the lingo-poem w-o-r-d /word/ 
 
there are and there were more and more than there were

 
balancing on the word cord 
 
I once snored Juliette Lewis out of an hotel bed 
but where and with whomever I slept 
 
it where mostly the poets who surprised me with their portraits