stranded, 10 a.m. and ahead
of me Salem, the great witch trials,
although not against hypnotising women
of great beauty, but against artists -
gone the hedonism of the 1960s
and the way the public revelled in
it as much as the artists - bog standard
ontology - you allow me to do my bit
i make you happy, done... next!
but no, not these days, everyone these
days demands toilet cubicle *******
sniffers to give you anything
decent art... honey... too much shame,
it was planted for a purpose, it has to be
smoked, drank, or sniffed... no point creating
an idea / ideal as the only escape route from
this massive **** vacuum with a few glittery
bits and pieces - you got to smash the piñata
somehow...
but yeah, the 5 p.m. metabolic rule (should
you have been exposed to a frequent
use of alcohol) - meaning i can't take it
after 5 p.m., i can binge on the x-files
(backlog of 6 episodes, yes, they're screening
the whole **** programme on spike),
prepare dinner (a stew with groats and a salad
on the side), but waiting longer for my
medical surrender to this great sedative is
that after i drink to reach a certain plateau
i can relax, read, write what i find...
i never understood art to have ever been written
without any sort of intoxication and sane...
unless of course you practice what René Magritte
did, and paint everything as if you had a *****
shoved up your *** (i.e. wearing a suit).