in times of
complete and utter ruin the image that runs laps around my head is that of: eric andre staring into nothingness and hannibal buress screaming for help
is not comedy it is the psyche in a sitcom
snap the nitrile blue gloves up in your ventricles grab a ******* or two we're gonna stretch and pull down the protector 3,2,1 avant garde no sound, but your life was hard I noticed you spoke it credits were rollin' down your cheek so you smoked it and laughed at nothing certain but death and taxes laxative breakfast served a generation you miss it you miss it a life that hurt because you scavenged for Christmas the little blessings a life worth living by killing optimists penetrating defense to pillar high with indifference to intent now you can't ascend you stash it in Easter baskets in sillicone lashes push the ashes together then burn the mattress dust to sand through fingers, a fist 3rd grade principal pulled from detention a stretcher pulled you white to trenches you fought in when all you needed was a breath of attention who said you could end it win it prescription of tribulations from whatever God you'd scavenge for Christmas he put you through it all the abuses the habits the black and white canvas silent obscuring angles of mannequins 30 seconds of a dancer who prayed for this madness who pays for the therapist who even lets you have it who kept you out of church and into church basements who writes the book of curses that force fed you the sedative given by laxatives that say they went to college. their Suit is stained in coffee Yet you have the vices The film is over the light flickers darkness we sit in the coffin smokin' and screamin' blood is flowing, but there's no fire we're just speakin' what happens after 3PM witching hour that one scene when the camera angle was blurry. it spoke to me said self examination can't be latex you gotta get nitrile they're cut resistant cover five fingers not just a lover a stranger they protect you from more than danger so button your blanket take down the ink curtains sun was always shining, closed it to blurry focus could take our macguyver theater wallpaper canvas stretching hit us in the temple like a parsha finished another session the blessing of human language the messenger malakh, without expectation we fumble to understand Scalpel in our hand, ventricle in tact we're just holdin' a feather pen talkin' in white and black we stick our hands in the past take a look at examination then take a look at our self.
The artist knows how to play a poor hand well. In utter style, causing envy.
On rainbow edge. Knowing truth beyond illusion. The surface mingles along painting colours, wishing it would drop and fall over this earth's surface. Moan and sigh. Existing art, modern magic. (knowledge Variable)
In reading past philosopher's, a concerto conversation
in historic fashion and expressed in poetry. A soul trembling, mystic produced, words to murmur all through a moon-lit, silver night and see the sun rise again. Descent from the mundane, where void is birthed, watch life expressed in mystical beauty. (Knowledge Variable)
— The End —