in re. to the title: currently known as
jesus christ:
       walked a centimetre,
hanged a mile.

         and if you ever get
a chance to
  admire
     rachel howard's
          repetition is turth -
  via dolorosa,

        sometimes a ******
artist, really becomes
an artist, of tastes,
  the aesthetic man,
   the art per se,
  but then the artist
as, qua: connoisseur...

      namely damien hirst...

but of course i'm not bemoaning
i receive head-numbing
compass instructions from
my testicles being offered
on the altar of a succubus
sabbath...

                     a woman's ego?
      the ****** bit i get,
**** might as well be a fancy
for milking a cow...
            desensitißed -
  and a life engrossed in
   "ambiance",
     or rather, the eerie humming
vibration of a refrigerator.

       but you know,
    not everyone can find pleasure
in the most mundane of foci
    "worth"
               observations.

  perhaps. perhaps...
          but acting is already
               over-represented...
but is acting: telling a lie,
        or faking, telling the truth?

ever hear that joke:
   knock knock?
       who's there?
      and suddenly you hear
a crescendo from an orchestra
with that well known signature
      at the end of o fortuna.