A Letter to Basquiat


Images juxtapose.
Image is just a pose
for those who wish to see it

Impoverished young artist,
paint spattered suit.
Undercover bum,
cardboard boxed in
Central Park.

Using the spoon in your mouth
to cook up with.

Working in abasement,
listening to Bird
and mimicking
his wings
with paint.

Turning turmoil into treasure troves
and dissonance to clarity.

Giving eyes to grotesque human forms,
so that they may see themselves
for what they really are:

Ridiculous, powerful creatures
carved from the city landscape,
all screaming out one word.

If a something’s said too many times
it will not sound the same.

Now they wear your crown
on baseball caps
and do not know
your name.



Lucas Howard

When I was seven I started copying poems out of a book and telling people they were mine. When I ran out of good ones to copy, I had to start writing my own. I have been performing and organising nights on the UK spoken word scene now for over seven years and am most of the way through writing the first draft of my first novel 'Zedlist', which is serialised on here. As the story is in fetal form, any critiques or suggestions are most welcome.

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