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.
