Lonely Magicians

Mix and Transfix. Sleight of Hand is Their Game

A poem about the illusory nature of art, and the loneliness of seeing the world for what it really is.

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Lonely Magicians
08/01/2006
by David C. Roberson

A painter, a writer
Are really the same.
They mangle and angle,
Claim art is to blame.
They color the walls
With the oils and their words
To create their own version
Of the sky and the birds.

They don’t say they’re gods.
They don’t control fate.
They just look at the world,
And they try to relate.

Bodies lay twitchin’
At the foot of a hill.
Don’t mean they’re livin’,
Only that they’ve been filled
With the ants and the worms
That come out of the ground.
Hear the flesh as it falters:
That slippery sound.

It don’t sound too pretty.
It could drive you insane.
It could drive you to drinkin’
Or right to your grave.

Black hearts of black hats
Who traffic for sex
To the hustlers and gamblers
And the liars and dregs
Who consume the young children
To nourish their pride
They feel good taking purity
Out for a ride.

There is no real gamble,
No risk or no fun,
If you don’t care what happens
With the rise of the sun.

When you have too much power
You begin to grow bored,
So you call darker demons
To help you get more.

A writer, a painter
Are really the same.
They mix and transfix—
Sleight of hand is their game.
Depict three dimensions
On a single blank page,
Sew seeds for the crowd
To reap cheers, tears, and rage.

We’re just lonely magicians
Pouring blood into craft,
Sharpening skills
While The Dark Things just laugh.

It’s not a good feelin’,
It hurts to the bone
When you wake up on empty
And restart alone.

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