Support.
Painting...my painting.
Perusal and reflection
lead to containment
of my need.
Though contentment
doth elude me.
Subconscious ramblings
of worn icons,
motifs of unimaginable
intertwining insignificance.
Excellence.
Things not realized.
Flowing
with electric indifference
to the squalid masses
we must all sleep with.
Callous,
undetected roughness
sublimely submerged
'neath a roiled
juggernaut
of corporate madness.
Yes,
to paint
is to bear witness
to the social undergrowth
so pervasive
with its soft, fecal
effervescence.
We drink it
like Champagne,
oblivious to
the requisite decay.
A toast.
To us, Wilhelm.
Our friendship,
and mutual emerging
acceptance
of life's requiem.
Daft,
I am.
Smelling,
and smoking
of blue-oiled redirect.
|
Author Notes
Yes, daft I be.
Gibberish.
'Twas brillig,
and the slivey toves doth gire and gimble
in the wabe.
Sorry. Best I could do from memory.
victor
|
|
