we'll see, we'll see. i'm kinda random.
zenith, let me down please. we are all salable, and God is an opiate. ideas are machines, "on pins & needles" rusty wheels. Duchamp, Duchamp, you renevator. tucan, tucan, tucan sam on the fruit loops box. you are a minimalist, ready-made of wire. painting is dead- art suicide -in the rafters with a toy handgun. she eats her fruit slowly, flays it first to see the insides. let me be you for a day? to know what life is like when you are God, your own opiate, sprouting poppies between your toes. control, control- out of, in, under. you lack a visual coherency that flies away on the wind & unifies the nations of our bodies. if you would shoot yourself in the arm for art, would you shoot yourself in the head for a piece of carrot cake?
my brain feels sponge-like, slow. wet and soaked through like the bandages on my hip. you know i did it 'cause i'm hip. to prove a point, like, there are starving kids in africa. pave the way yellow brick roads & ruby shoes. the witches hang from ropes in trees. these are happenings. life is an installation.
my brain feels sponge-like, slow. wet and soaked through like the bandages on my hip. you know i did it 'cause i'm hip. to prove a point, like, there are starving kids in africa. pave the way yellow brick roads & ruby shoes. the witches hang from ropes in trees. these are happenings. life is an installation.