It’s Comedy If You Laugh

Do you taste like beer Stella, does your last name happen to be Artios?

I Won’t Live Forever

It’s all perspective, a frame we do have our hands on, always adjusting trying to get the right level

When you write as much as I do about it all, there can be no doubting how much you have examined to the depths; beyond what the average has analyzed abut themselves, about others. You make a lot of remarks that are certain, while trying to live multiple lives – only one can truly exist. If continued in this manner the cracks begin to show. A powerful will can hold them together, can keep the reckoning at bay; this doesn’t mean it ought to be. Slowly it tears at you, and while I feel this trial to be of value, it is not by any means a way to live in my determinations.

It’s a funny life, the way it comes around from space to space. Watching J hit the ring back to back in the heat of the moment – to this, here with you going on about your love for popcorn[ironic more than you know] and then just as willed by the gods you collect your bounty on the hook, ringed. Nursing drink after drink, and If I came right out and said what I wanted to – I wouldn’t be me, because me would never admit what the reckless would pour out of slit wrists. I’m good, you’re good, checking up on us – You won’t be there right? I mean a guy who drives a car like that? I’m over that kind of fear. Looking right into the mouth of the fire eating me alive, I can say the carpet matches the drapes.

Yeah I let you go, because I have to. That kind of fire eats you alive, until you’re nothing but embers hoping to find new wood to jump to and blaze. That kind of fire is a choice to flame out, that kind of life is a tall glass of 91 octane; only the good shit – you can’t afford to get me drunk

I won’t live forever, but I do hope you’ll lay with me

Something For The Old Roots

How long have we been here?

Long enough that it’s clear.

Clear that…

That you and the rest aren’t going anywhere.

Not anywhere fast, but still going!

 

Well With Depthlessness Ain’t No Well For Me

“The president is best understood not as a figure who harkens back to the distant past, evokes other lands, or foreshadows the future, but one who is representative of this very moment in America, where media overload is destroying the sense of a shared public reality.

In examining Trump as a product of our unique epoch, one of the sharpest analytical tools available is the theory of postmodernism, developed in the 1970s and 1980s by a host of theorists—perhaps most famously by Fredric Jameson, the polymathic Duke University literary scholar.

…For Jameson, postmodernism meant the birth of ‘a society of the image or the simulacrum and a transformation of the ‘real’ into so many pseudoevents.’ Befitting the ‘postliteracy of the late capitalist world,’ the culture of postmodernism would be characterized by ‘a new kind of flatness or depthlessness, a new kind of superficiality in the most literal sense’ where ‘depth is replaced by surface’

…For Baudrillard, ‘the perfect crime’ was the murder of reality, which has been covered up with decoys (‘virtual reality’ and ‘reality shows’) that are mistaken for what has been destroyed. ‘Our culture of meaning is collapsing beneath our excess of meaning, the culture of reality collapsing beneath the excess of reality, the information culture collapsing beneath the excess of information—the sign and reality sharing a single shroud,’ Baudrillard wrote in The Perfect Crime (1995).

The Trump era is rich in such unreality. The president is not only a former reality-show star, but one whose fame is based more on performance than reality”

If nothing penetrates these surfaces, this empty show of a view; a view of signs on the walls one and the same with the world that holds the sign up – I would be sorely remiss to not make myself the spade that begins to dig the start of an eras depths.

 

Here’s To The Gilded Age Of The Morning After

What do you do when the renaissance demands the gold for its gilded age? Pull up, up on it, tell me that you want it, pull up, pull up on it… It’a so much warmer inside. Let your body do the talking, say it!

Whatever you want. That’s a fairly vulnerable statement. Because what if I want to close my eyes and put a hold on this painting, or touch it while it’s wet, or get off early-the train doesn’t stop-I brought us here to sink only the finest into the moment, and the finest earthy tones sunk into my drinks, my sight; ochre yellow champagne, lips raw-sinopian red! without the wedding! Occhi Terra di Siena bruciata as long as the lights are umber dim, thought you were the good doctor, but the double blind experience keeps strong legs tied up in an age lacking innocence. What if what I desire is something new and wild, to send it into the rich terra toned vastness without any covers!

Warmth that brought the heartless back on beat, lighting up this cracked screen, it’ just a reference to a phone it’s not that deep

I’ve never taken my foot off the gas for anything other than to change gears, and if it isn’t shaking, leaking, or smoking I don’t want anything to do with it.

What kind of man are you? Well to relegate myself to any one aspect of a goddess would never see me equal to the divine; but do I dig your ass or tits more? When in your favorite position, on top and in control, what part of you am I not indulging; I don’t think there’s a single shade that I couldn’t draw. And that doesn’t answer the question, but what fun would this be if it all came right out without any of the build up. Anticipation of that ocean is probably the greatest story ever lived.

I can still feel it. The stir of neurons sings a sweet tune when I’m in, this typ-a mood, you. And that’s all that matters for it to be real.

Does a creator want anything else? Anything beyond the knowledge that their art is not beneath any other who has taken a breath at the razors edge. Every move is an art well practiced, seeing potential and I got to see it through, cut in darkness we get to it so I can hit the streets again, they are looking rather drab – who fills them, who picks the colors anyways! I’m far from convinced they have any sort of artistic eye the way they just give everyone parking tickets

Here’s to offering our necks to the wolves with so much uncertainty – Swimming in the language of breath & tongues; Vibes & trust.

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I wish I had more time to draw, it feels wrong without that touch. The way I spend money though it’s tough keeping up. And my art won’t sell until I’m long gone.