THE ARTIST IS THE ARCHITECT

of the imagination’s puzzling encounters. lift us above and beyond our monochrome minutes accelerating into a lake. it is not colour merely but and orgy of monastic inhibitions repainted as mosaic. lifer, one hard thrust and

          with a cry

the night lives in triangles and the morning dies in squares. these tessellating figments drive us further to madness, chipping away at pixelated purposes and porpoises, becoming

          SAD WHORES

which leaves no room for checklists or paragraphs but plenty for paraphrasing, ripping quotes wholesale from savages and dirty uncles. this far, but no father.

WE HAVE SEEN THE FUTURE OF ART

a rippling twist of bright defiance and chaos, a smothering and a release from those manacles of decorum that lash our monocles close to close the deal with a wink and coffin toast.

WHY? cries a lone man in a deck chair, swaddled in his apathetic fury. he dipped his nib into the country’s blood and scrawled mushrooms.

all shall be well

or strangers will be eaten by the squalls of desperate seagulls, squawking oblivion. we rest, ferociously, like the masturbating maidens of outland were the wind swallows our mistakes.