Does anyone here remember what happened to Vladimir? Yeah, verbatim… Does anyone here remember what happened to Vladimir? Yeah, verb ate him…
To bleed jealous colors, plucking eyelashes like thorns from wounded rainbows—watch ‘em streak slow through gasoline puddles. The sound is subtly muffled when the entire spectrum crumbles—the eyes are props in tunnels that never resemble vision’s funnel. A solid standing surface or perforated strainer’s the difference between picture painters and painting framers. When their lanterns can’t even see beyond brush-stroke banter, broad intangible phantoms capture candlewax masters for scratching the cuts. After disaster plucks enough for us to grasp one-part tentacle / two-part series spectacle, pouring ropes of glue down my throat to renew the cliché of a broken heart. Earth to plane, moth to flame: If it’s all the same quick claim to flickering fame my interest wanes from Astro-terrain to empty space between a football huddle’s group teddy-bear cuddle. So love is but the exchange of two consenting ventricles tossed into conceptual receptacles. Ignoring perennial protocol, like do professors make sounds if you’re never there to hear roll call? If I spit something you can’t absorb it ricochets and when my words boomerang back of the blackboard into my face I’ll say touché. And if those thorns sink too deep to extract, I’ll exact facts on reflective plaques and watch opinion’s mirror crack—distract its fragments from gathering stagnant, I’m an emotionless catalyst who motions to analyze this animated statuette. My ocular always adamant about watching my wrists slit to heal in minutes—skin rough, scars fixed with sandpaper platelets. Bracelets echo down my fingers only to linger like rings of bacteria—antibodies flex and flash like disposable cameras…
Why am I always snapping shots at myself?
As artists we’re all narcissists. We try to distinguish ourselves using a language invented to communicate passion through anguish. But these are all just concepts—we need to extinguish acrobatic flips that just cross our names off the list. One by one, we all diminish. Our insipid yet stylish facades are childish, too ignorant to not acknowledge. We don’t pop caps in cats but what we really do is fib with ignominious attempts to spit acido on our bibs. Now who the fuck is Vladimir? Revolutionary leverage—it could mean Mayakovski but it’s just another reference. That’s not my preference, so Webster’s fired me like lepers get paid in severance but my breathless setlist consists of songs I haven’t written yet. Capsized ships get wet, tape-deck pilots eject—my four red chips have yet to connect. By now the room’s probably so hot it’s alarming—I’m sorry, but next time you’ll have to bring your own radiation suit to the party…
Does anyone here remember what happened to Vladimir? Yeah, verbatim… Does anyone here remember what happened to Vladimir? Yeah, verb ate him…
