i'm back to drinking that milky absinthe of Turkey, another night and i'll **** a ******* keyhole with my eye.*

after nearing a 36 hour stretch of being fully awake,
is the serotonin in my brain became caffeine,
i figure, if i managed this diet alcohol free
and push the limits to, say, 52 hours, through
my brain's lack recuperation, i could suffer one last
major lie in on the electric bed and be happily gone,
even physical labour doesn't allow be being tired,
stuffing my stomach to ensure the blood flow went
to the gut... that giant star moving in the night
yesterday above my house didn't help either -
maybe that's why i left studying science, after all
the major discoveries, scientists became a bit
like priests, so entrenched in their beliefs,
artists can theorise, sure, but they rarely make things
dogmatic, take for example Frank O'Hara's manifesto
concerning Personism, the dogmatic in art doesn't
come from artists, hardly a single impressionist
could allow themselves a sticker with:
hello, my name is MONET... champagne and canapés,
artists don't bother defining themselves by
movements... it's the rich girls & boys who do that,
incapable to stomach the truth, the bourgeoisie reality
(proto-Marxism, borrowing money, eh?),
they can't become artists they become critics,
they're the one ones distributing the 'hello, my name is'
stickers for everyone to stick onto themselves,
sure they provide the money - the really rich?
ha ha... the fifth earl of Shropshire hangs the first
earl of Shropshire on his wall... like in Buckingham
palace Queen Elizabeth said of Francis Backon's
artwork: oh that horrid man painting those horrendous
monstrosities of metaphysical plastic surgeries?
the really rich deal with hereditary art, things passed
down, priceless artefacts, which would hardly fetch
£100 million at an auction house like Sotheby's,
believe me... they might get a tenner at best.