Just how beautiful it could cause him to yet become – this pockly canvas and all of its sworn-in adulterous moments
When chaos made us see it
No pressure but for the cooker, he created all by himself
 
Uneven instances of twisted reckonings – seething, seething, still heavenly hellish breathing
 
The upsetting paramilitary artist, never handsome not never at all, just mightily made-up within the inner inside of his reckless being – bloodied and ferociously mischievous only ever of course…
 
Camouflaged, flagged brilliance, perhaps? The financial worriers will push at themselves and ask it… too many times to count themselves in whilst all awhile he takes his favourite sycamore smile and proceeds with problematic poise aside argumentative levels of holy ghost precision
 
Decisions, incisions, and Turner sits incredulously bargain-faced – attempts as best that he shan’t ever manage to handle the outright histrionics of a seated canvas which argues with the fighting size of its sitting easel
 
Opposed to the others yet comfortably stuck back together again and for one last invaluable time sent beneficially insane – and three continual condition people start to sin, sin, sin for their hurtful worth in the uninviting world of messed up people and plagiarised places, faces, which still stand eerily still
 
This is his ugly glare placed abruptly against the worshipping window way outside and it seems to be acting decidedly inescapable
Severely battling to sever itself from its own gentrified natures and it absolutely knows that he will need for something abstract and sacrosanct to act whipsmart and real
 
That if this piece has to suddenly become a sellout masterpiece then that is what it will take for it to cheat, masquerade and magnificently amount
 
And he suddenly begins to sweetly, succinctly take it all of the ways away from dead and almost very neatly, nearly buried again and back to a burgeoning, besmirching place of undeniable mastery
 
Was this all just a necessary dress-rehearsal though!?
With one foot inside of the blanketed bed again and another trotting the corners of the whispering globe
 
The speaking, swimming, sinning materials – all quarrelling upon their playful own and the bruising bouts of early-a.m. entrapping turmoil caught napping all by its own lonely and lonesome lullaby will witness and watch the shape of his body break in all of the right places – seems to be that he has had it so easy til now …
 
One fell gluttonous swoop gathered by the instantaneously simultaneous installation of a two-day dotted, multi-coloured, -emotive excursion of bargaining happenings
It wasn’t supposed to singularly be this way yet his breath both argues for and against it
 
Motherfucking sacrilege happenstances and all guided mysteriously by the wrought-iron nature of one man and his striking, stricken visual – and he suddenly feels quite beneficially tired yet crazily made-up and recklessly ready
 
To forever proceed – because he has to, had to have done all along
And if he fails, he admittedly failed for a whole half-century at being anything other than dangerously imperfect at being incredibly real