The inhuman grasp of boldness aches out towards me with some divine, delightful hand and has me do absurd changes to my face. The very potent shadows of the creases arch my structure into dracula envy, almost like that of a new order to my skin. The naked self is not a fine justification of art, it is a pseudonym spitting on the finely carved stool art rests on. The un-clothed naked form, with its curly creases, its snapping stretches, its measly bends, its crazy carves, its goofy hairs, its jelly joints, the occasional peaks of bone arising up past the skin to boo the touch of the fingers with the skeleton in its ripest form, the swift bend of the ankle, the uncontrollable swifts of a thigh, the spine dimples, the nails for which our fingers grow, the cusp above or under the collarbone, the dainty soft skin of a babe so easily bruised by teeth, the alien inwards curve of a waist, the manner which the hipbones rise to tap against another pair in a dual, the sweet clanker of confused eyebrows, the internal ache of a pair of lips as they apart, the freak freckles, the telling tongue, the very potent rosemary that causes the heartback in your pants. This is not art! The idea is abusing the inhuman essence of art itself; art the creator, art the inventor, art the alchemist, but neither with the sweet sweep of nature to guide them! Art who takes nature by the hand is the sly souless snake. The bare mule of a siren doesn’t dare be called art instead it is the creation of the siren itself! I trust in the strength of my soul! I trust in the scarlet of what my mind can do, scarlet and scarlet will equal gold in the goldmine and from that gold will divide many snakes to depose of opposition. The opposition is lame in theory, lame in bed, lame in the head.The tropics are offering energy my way and I dare not depute them, for my jelly form is allergic to dust.
