viernes, 20 de marzo de 2009

The Art of human Part 1

Stitch me up to a naive person, and in its words of wisdom a rock shall be thrown while a thread slips away.

Paint me on your body and make my tongue curl up on your curves so that way I can taste and smell your everything on your holy canvas.





Like a nun on a Godly rehab.

Like a drunken boy on a stool.

Like the devil trying to be good.

An honest man is fiction, like a roach that causes pleasure or a bird that doesn't peck, so, imagine one, create one, save it on a drawer or put him under the bed.

In. Out.

A knife comes in, fluffy, slippery, no sweat, not a tear, red.

Red oil, brush it now and paint a heritage, an impossible future.

"Tres bien", says the man on the corner, as he realizes that a new sculputure will be made out of the crumbles of the man.

I'm him. In. Out. In. Out.

An eye to gouge away so a cup can be made.

A mouth to stitch up to place the tools and the cup.

Ears to tear, pour some paint on them, or just toss them away.

A head of ideas, take a look, but be wary.

You've darken your thoughts, so now it's impossible to think of a color that matches you. A color for the lovely canvas.

In. Out. Explode.

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