what perch could possibly be better than this electric camelot? driftwood dining room, hot summer wind and baby spiders the color of cornsilk. more mine than anyone else's. you're not free unless you're alone.
artists resent their own children. sit down with them, see how they fail to mind their manners no matter how hard you love them, reminded of their flawed humanity as it argues loudly with your belief in their perfection.
for starters, you can't be afraid of words. you can't be afraid to admit that you see pomelo-breasted african women in the clouds of your own blood or in the pinot noir warshak blot on black cotton. you must also use capital letters, proper nouns, and condemn ladies for being playground traitors. we're playing black metal biker bitches with red lipstick, not laugh-at-all-their-jokes-soft-curls-dinner-is-ready bitches in disguise. you must troll the streets at dawn in 6-inch heels. that's when and where you'll get your clarity. your last cigarette from the night before. your pale reflection in the dark windows of more pious enterprises like bed, bath and beyond. honest work. your body will begin to loosen and blare false advertising. but you must be prepared to shut it up, quietly. investigate, interrogate, entreat your best-friend-turned-enemy to rejoin the cause. or at least, not to leave you shivering alone under hot, angry stars.
saloon doors open inward. they call for a two-handed forceful entry. hesitate and your cover is blown. you cannot doubt/hate/suffer your inner sacred cows to shrivel in the limelight. you must strut that spotted, dairy-producing vessel down a very narrow catwalk. you must be present to win.
notes on a wall depicting scandal. documenting the effects of drinking solo. each stroke can lead you back to the top of your essay. to the top of the wave, the crest, sunny spines, whatever mountainous inspiration you can glean from easy-bake encouragement. break it apart, drop it on a pan, impress your guests and save time. no flour on your nose, no hair out of place.
at least, not in this house.
artists resent their own children. sit down with them, see how they fail to mind their manners no matter how hard you love them, reminded of their flawed humanity as it argues loudly with your belief in their perfection.
for starters, you can't be afraid of words. you can't be afraid to admit that you see pomelo-breasted african women in the clouds of your own blood or in the pinot noir warshak blot on black cotton. you must also use capital letters, proper nouns, and condemn ladies for being playground traitors. we're playing black metal biker bitches with red lipstick, not laugh-at-all-their-jokes-soft-curls-dinner-is-ready bitches in disguise. you must troll the streets at dawn in 6-inch heels. that's when and where you'll get your clarity. your last cigarette from the night before. your pale reflection in the dark windows of more pious enterprises like bed, bath and beyond. honest work. your body will begin to loosen and blare false advertising. but you must be prepared to shut it up, quietly. investigate, interrogate, entreat your best-friend-turned-enemy to rejoin the cause. or at least, not to leave you shivering alone under hot, angry stars.
saloon doors open inward. they call for a two-handed forceful entry. hesitate and your cover is blown. you cannot doubt/hate/suffer your inner sacred cows to shrivel in the limelight. you must strut that spotted, dairy-producing vessel down a very narrow catwalk. you must be present to win.
notes on a wall depicting scandal. documenting the effects of drinking solo. each stroke can lead you back to the top of your essay. to the top of the wave, the crest, sunny spines, whatever mountainous inspiration you can glean from easy-bake encouragement. break it apart, drop it on a pan, impress your guests and save time. no flour on your nose, no hair out of place.
at least, not in this house.
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