people's artistic ambitions, whether juvenile,
or matured, never take into consideration other
people's upheavals and counters,
it's staggering how much
of art is based upon the irrelevance
of shared experience,
and more focused on
passing-time stuck in traffic...
funny, isn't it? the idealised
personal, thus idealised,
becomes impersonal... so much of
art is based upon the irrelevance
of shared experience, and more
focused on passing-time stuck
in traffic... with the number of mammals
roaming this place, a few of us
will become lizards... cold-blooded
heretics opposed to the doctrine
of humanism... with the number
of mammals roaming this place,
a few of us will turn into cold blooded
lizards... sometimes we'll get a
mammalian blood-clot of warmth in
us, a pop song... but that's about it...
we just look at these **** pseudo-sapiens
attempting feats horrid with the deus attache -
and we think... i'd thank a god for a second
chance to be reborn a dentist -
where once the weakness to dislodge self-belief
and believe in god was considered normal
for the iron maiden to say otherwise...
now people are in a frenzy when self-belief
has gone awry, pear-shaped...
because it has... added to the fact that i have
to consider two things with inevitable death:
i have to consider my own mortality
and the chance of fame... you can hardly
become philosophical considering the latter...
what sort of philosophy is spawned from
considering mortality and fame alike?
it's like saying: you're alive... and technically
you're already famous, when nothing
is the entire audience admiring your
self-development... luckily poets never make
it on the t.v. like they did in the 1960s
experimenting with l.s.d., apart from that
one poet on the game show pointless...
with the added celebrity; yep, pointless
celebrities... i wonder if Marx would have
envisioned the celebrity class along with
the bourgeoisie and the working man...
i think he'd have failed that discovery...
i know where i am... i have the perfect seat
in the house, like spotting a ballet dancer
outside the Opera House, standing with
ballet slippers, smoking a cigarette...
in the end: i'm just a passerby -
                       forever attached to hello
and bye-bye...
                           we've been the horrid
process of being educationally institutionalised...
some people feel the wrath of institutions
they end up writing lyrical songs
akin to The  Smiths...
                                      solution?
school uniform... works every time...
originality of the mind converts the peacocks into
pigeons, or it doesn't, whatever.