I started off intricate, placing lines with abandon- I want all who look at it to see the care taken with it. In combination with reckless placement- of colors so sharp. It cuts deep- and I can taste the blood, those knives so cold. I can’t take it anymore, the simple lines- the black and white- lines thick as clubs carried by barbarians. Blunt instruments and dull shapes, where inside all that is seen is a replication of a tactic employed long ago. When is the last time you felt that sharpness, when you put your hands on an instrument that dealt color in life beautiful, intricate, deliberate chaos orchestrated through freedom of mind. I never asked you to question the sensibilities of modern businessmen; I don’t want you to wear the tuxedo different. I don’t see it, I see the men you belong to. I see the group, once so filthy has become clean. You can tilt your hats, and cut your hair, never see work, live off dirt, yet you will still not create that thing so sharp. Your tool has become a club, and you solve your problems with it. Every problem is solved with belief, you slam down your maze of darkened cubes, but in the end your conviction will stop you from becoming better. Oh dull mind, I have you- I see through your eyes and feel complacent lies leak out of my own. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s filth, it’s fine. Six feet of dirt couldn’t dull your sharpened blade, no filth in these suits, no life in this heart, no passion in your lines, just clever lies to hide your broken ethic- but I see. I cannot say what it is I see, but I see happiness on faceless names promoting themselves who pat the backs of these four failures that created a perfume of success to coat themselves in blinded by thoughts that turn them into crooks, cleaned and dulled- made simple, made basic. We aren’t teachers but we taught so many these thoughts that made us dull- these things that made us who we are- we teach a million to dance to the beat of the indifferent drum to the point where it all becomes clockwork. Oh hypocritical dream of freedom lie to me, tell me that my creations all so sharp could be so different, tell me that my creations so dull are all the same in stark contrast of the sharpness so. Perception is the end of me, for it has become I who see these three figures in dark rags peddling wares broken- cheap and in unison my eulogy “The creative one who died, taught all his creative lie, and in death fools none, opaque filth now rest- now return to dust.” Don’t sell me these words I wrote so long ago, as if they were brand new, seldom told, good as gold. As an orchestration of dull thought, I told you it’s all ruined and wrought broken dreams on once sharpened utensils. I was better when I had three hearts beating in my chest- but then I had my brain ripped out- hearts melted, replaced, broken- ears filled with moths, screeching weasels, bastards, I broke my legs and forgot what I ran from or for. At the end of the line- the one I walked so long, I found myself clean and dull- and my dreams long painted black by my orchestrated circus of positive clowns- I am sick, we are sick, we deserve sickness, we deserve each other. You belong with us, you positive clowns, you club wielding artists, you crooked salesmen, you perfume sniffing , you pants less pugs, you dead cultists, you art teachers of heroine towns, you filthy hipsters, you grave digging dark tellers, you bleeding heart fry cooks, and all dreadful followers. You’re all filth in my eyes – we belong in the same grave- come lay with us, our bed is soft, comfort in a cold dull death, in a heap of filth.
You are we. We are nothing, inside a black hole. Breathe deep and impossibly, see magnificent beauty in literal nothingness. Accept nothing but compliments, because you think your dress is so pretty. They took a picture of your bad side, so you bleed out your eyes onto those soft white silks.
Salt it and eat it on a plate you damn creative pig.
The voice of love spoken from a heart of hatred, remember- C*MAR loves you, but it loves you more like a friend, but it thinks that it might know someone who would be interested in meeting you.
The curse will be broken at true loves first substitute.