My name is Mick Theebs and I am a writer and an artist. Like most artists, I try to express myself in a way that is both personal and reflective of the human condition as a whole. I accomplish this with varying degrees of success. I write poetry, short fiction, and novels. I paint in acrylics and watercolors. I also run my own website called ALSO THAT at http://www.alsothat.com where I share my own work alongside the work of others.
Don’t Listen to the Bleeding Hearts
Don’t listen to the bleeding hearts
and romantics and university students.
Art is as commonplace as a phone call to an old friend.
Artists are self-important.
It’s a necessary trait
Otherwise people would see
them for what they are:
Bottom feeders.
Scum.
Liars.
Charlatans.
Sophists.
We make the effort to spin
shit into gold.
But it’s still shit.
No matter how much time you spend on it.
No matter how much work and thought goes into it.
It’s still shit.
But sometimes,
Sometimes the light catches it
Just right…
They’re a rotten bunch.
“Tortured”
“Feeling”
“Misunderstood”
More like maladjusted.
Who isn’t tortured and feeling?
Who doesn’t feel misunderstood?
It’s just the opposite:
They’re completely understood-
Smearing colors around and
Covering pages with lines.
Useless crybabies.
Unable to cope with the
Everyday wretchedness of humanity
And are thus forced to ram their head into the wall repeatedly
In an attempt to make it
More beautiful with their blood.
…And for one shimmering second, it’s gold.
All Artists are Delusional
All artists are delusional.
Don’t you people know that yet?
We have to be.
Delusion is our only armor
against those barbed criticisms
flung at us from all directions.
They don’t care that
we bare our souls
on the page or canvas.
They take smug delight
in cutting us down and
reminding us of our inferiority.
So we retreat further into our delusions
in an effort to shield ourselves from the
gnawing tooth and empty belly
of the critical masses.
And the cycle continues without end
without any improvement
until art is dead.
Phantom Pain
I move to touch you
And you’re not there.
Only an ache dull and constant
Nothing but air.
This pain is an illusion
A mere trick of the light.
That doesn’t change the fact
I can’t sleep through the night.
I wake in cold sweat twisting with pain.
There’s nothing to help
Because nothing remains.
All I can do is lay and wait and quietly yearn.
My lost piece.
My missing part.
One day you might return.
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