Abstractions tear my eyes away from the prize I'm maladaptive to reason rhymed between the lines What use is a thought that cannot be tasted? Dabbled between stamp-licked envelopes and sent away to a thoughtless massacre We are all, uninformed. Art is the practice of, the expression of, the life of... Art is nothing you can understand until you have been crushed by it. Dots on a page, strings on a parcel invoke the dance of martyrs pleasurably spinning on wires for the good of all. Mimic! Puppeteer! Your audience awaits. The applause, the laughs, the empty integrity of instant gratification. Television screens flicker honesty so calmly, my own mind fades when the headset is turned off. Repulsion excretes from intestinal dystrophy, yesterday's excuses spill out on the conclusive cement Suicide would've been cleaner, worthless creationist. Now, there is no excuse for the garbage polluting our minds. November 15, 2004