i want to be an artist
but only by my own hand and heart
because I have finally decided
that I am the only voice in my head that matters!
No amount of pity comparison
from some unwanted third party
will give me justice
I want everyone
whose ever told me that my work is
"better than anything they could've done",
to stick their half-assed compliment
right back where it came,
from the depths of their pitiful ego.
As if their low self esteem would get me anywhere
when sadly it doesn't, actually,
I feel like my art isn't worth **** when told that!
It leaves me feeling unsatisfied, like the feeling you get
when your'e awarded the participation medal..
I wan to scream at the people who think they can give
criticism in envy
I want them to shred my canvas to its very sketch
I want them to throw it off the roof
in a fit of anger and disgust.
I want them to set it a blaze in ridicule.
I want someone to snap it over their knee
and challenge my ideals.
But no, instead I will receive a measly
"well at least it's better than I could've done"

well... the hype is over, long gone, done and dusted -
out of Heathen came the soundtrack
of some life - standing out quasi-radio-head black-star,
Lazarus for the video -
girl loves me - and i guess the John Coltrane
accent on dollar days -
but like Caesar said, i too will say again:
i expect a sudden death -
i want a sudden death, i don't want a
delayed letter type of death -
i don't want a thought of death as some
postcard from Monte Carlo - wishy washy
wish you were here -
a sudden death and not this waiting game
under the influence of morphine -
a sudden death, the checkmate -
Damocles' sword hanging on a
horse's hair - VIOLINS! VIOLINS!
during the ballet i charged all the jealous
energies into the art -
i could have looked-on couples kissing
with resentment - with jealousy -
but i put all that cognitive energy into
the ballet - and it worked, plus
i had my Sancho Panza with me, i have only
151 pages of Kant left to finish,
and living in a democratic society
and not being an academic specialist i will
move on to someone else - which always feels
like such a shame to never see the obscure works
of the man - esp. when in such works you
have to engage with the work, you have
to follow the architect like a low-life labourer -
i wish philosophy books could be like
David Bowie's last album, were everyone can
write autobiographies, overload on
subjectivity, sponge in sponge out -
bias and forced trolling - but Heathen sums him up
for me - i wouldn't care for a retrospective on
death - as if it eve gave man a deeper introspective
when he was at mortality's zenith -
i guess it's too bleak at mortality's nadir
to say an introspection is allowed - because it isn't -
it's not magnetic enough for the teens -
it doesn't raise profits - mortality's zenith is
kaleidoscopic introspection - a single image:
a million sound variations, the story is the same:
to leave an imprint akin to the mountain or the sea.
the nadir? retrospection - the limitless space in
a limited time. the English language is good
at shortening philosophical prose of Germans -
but it never really hired enough labourers to
follow the plans of the architect, a book like
Kant's is nothing but a wonky table, when it ought
to be a Statue of Reason - this form of writing
investment will never appeal to many -
read a book of philosophy on the tube and people
will cite very few words of interest in engaging -
you can be truly selfless in the literary realm,
you don't have to do ponce with good-feeling
in charitable work - might as well read Kant -
that's a selfless act alone - funny, isn't it?
i think it's hilarious - i'm working charity on unread books -
or books that if they have been read, get
regurgitated from a single labourer's schematic shortening -
a prior / a posteriori / analysis / synthesis etc.,
i could have worked in charity shop,
Kant's book became my charity shop - i tend to use
my limbs sparingly - why would it be anything else?
the architect envisioned a house, given
the number of eager labourers all he got was three bricks
stacked on top of each other without cement to glue
them firm.
i could have been jealous of the couples in London -
but i charged all my jealousy into the ballet -
i left for home with Kant -
all i saw was butterflies, and 2 weeks from now, est mort.

I splashed around the ***** room,
Dropping my knife onto my shoe.
Losing a toe, some dignity and a lot of pride.
I finally made some hot chocolate for tonight.

I couldn’t believe, the nightmares in there,
The smell of my burning skin in the heavy air.
As I melted onto the floor and grunted in pain,
That devilish pie was still laughing in my face.

I never came back, after that day,
Mainly because of my inability to bake.

wonder
thoughts
remembrance

maybe if I hid
my journal that one morning
I would still be living in the city

maybe if I hadn't
entered your rose garden
I wouldn't be as broken

the bitter regret
when the sunrise
comes in

the butterfly effect
could have made a change

it's always
what if