I give myself to the will of the world
my weight against the waves
by will the waves will guide me
and I will live by will of faith
I'm more of a concept than an object
More of an object than a body
More of a body than a person.
Most days that doesn't bug me,
I place a friendly insect on myself with relative frequency
and relate frequently
But some entities
who's mirth is indistinguishable from malice
thrust them upon me
like a thousand crawling infant arachnids
I fight the compulsion to sit
very
very
still
I fight the compulsion to baby them
There is nature in my spider veins
If I ever understood romance it would be that thing I found
The feeling that resides within the friction of a graphite tip on may-I-have-some
Plain
Printer
Paper
There's something intimate in the act of transforming a canvas in to something BETTER
it's emptiness bloated with faith
so full it's nearly foul with trust
If it could speak
If I could speak
Then I believe we might seek
The most certain artists
A blessing be they gentle of hand
though not so much as to stifle the art
And with invocation of the role reversal
The artist becomes a canvas filled
Crafted just as skillfully by the summation of their works.
A clear head is a clear conscience
Though I can't speak much to cleanliness
Dirty minds are not so often godless
Despite having forgotten what the tenet is
Something about silky napkin hospice
For some bloody handed hypocrites
The same who up an fucking lost it
When the bodies bore their fingerprints
order
process
execution
adjustment
adjustment
adjustment
I know how it goes
I'm fond of process
despite drowning in the tedium
there is revelry in readjustment
there is love within love
and within that love
are granules of Everything
each with love at their own core
if my brain is truly a sieve
then let it be because I am sifting
through the love
to find more love
ambiently
automatically
as a matter of course
I love to love
and
I love to love
complexity included.
Someone get a kids art kit
I need to smell nostalgia
Remedy the separateness
And wreck the grotesque gala
It was never about a dress
It was always about a palate
Hunger never satisfied
Despite eating paint by the gallon