The New York City divide between what’s real and insane and significantly insular
A crying canvas calls out my name midst its prolonged duration, and so suddenly soon I am in here again, making singular sense of something so very singularly nonsensical as… Love?

You took a piece of me before you took it all away
One way or another, smothering the borrowed being that is the real me, so it seems

Are we really a living, seething, breathing dichotomy of two people?
Needy, yet a mysteriously nocturnal creature with shape-shifting abilities
An epiphany, an oracle, a lightning-bolt realisation

The unstructured situation will shape us
More paint on the floor than even inside of my mind – the space has been otherworldly pronounced, announces something altogether ethereal, solves problems by creating something new
Something state-of-the-art

Lathered in self-doubt, suddenly transformed itself into self-creation again – the hidden in-between
It wails with wanton creation – curved at the smash of the interlocking dove-tail
Whip-smart and comfortably real
Where art makes multi-emotive sense of itself
Strenuous, unaccustomed to this sizeable thing with wings sketched and skeleton-ed upon
I tried to see the forest through your eyes only it was no use

I long to break free but this is it, this is all of me right here immediately right about now

Creeps on in – awash with sprays of delirious delight – foresight they call it
All night wary re-awakenings, snail-paced caffeine machine to set the system serene again – all bean-made streaming hot smoke and cloaked in prefabricated awareness
A sleeping coffee house reads what I’ve been needing
Like all of the great masters, I guess

And all awhile you are away on rent, to a perfect place that means next to nothing to me – truly, I never really realised that another man could make me feel so very strenuously insane

But this sneering, smirking, ability
To pronounce myself by way of utter turmoil sizably wrapped in colour-coded portrayal will not cease in playing with itself time again

The constant and crying, vitriol nature of it all, that angry angst and uneasy betrayal, it breathes

Yet
A marvellous and all-in-one manic masterpiece presents itself either way we went – the pair of us, in-love and in an entirely different setting, soliloquy scenario
The rigid and supreme realm was never a window but rather a mirror, navigating for only my own
The crashed-out car can be all of it yours, that metallic piece of superficial afterthought, but the multi-tasking manoeuvres are all of them mine
Only I am walking with wondrously correct angels now, so it seems to be the case in constant point

Broken down imbeciles mean to create something from nothing, so you do get to knowing – can you not simply see it in the steer of their searing eyes? In the speed of their retreating feet?

The manner in which they plagiarise then paint for themselves
Til recklessly real… it is in the dampening darkness of the screaming a.m. again and I appear ready to bring delirium into rip-worn play, to endlessly, mysteriously, play with my better surrounds til otherworldly pronounced

I am logging out now
We are finally a selfsame figure, you and I
By way of ghostly paintings

Paralysed by suitable way of these seriously swarmed and warmed and decidedly comfortable canvases again
You hold your crackling pen full of fluff, you’re a herring gull chic searching for a regurgitated man-meal, whilst I shy away from the sordid scene
I cannot be your peak-shift effect anymore

Great art is made when least anticipated, my dear – when the entire system screams its way back into righteous reckoning again

Please, feel free to feel the heat of my brand new and rekindled heartbeat, because the whole wide world will be doing the very same and so superficially soon

All the doom ‘n’ gloom turned me into a poles apart man – a man who carries with him this informed awareness aside teetering ability
And all that you will ever need to do
Is to take a look inside of the artist’s studio

Wherein aptitude and crass imagination feels the force of evil and, still, it breathes

Predominantly for me… they say that I am like a cloud about to amount
To all out rain
Even if the money means next to nothing – just a little food for thought will do, thank you
Through careful distortion, he found a way to intensify his art, the Picasso of his time, if only, perhaps
poetart – “All that I need is a makeshift canvas up inside of my mind – these people, these far-reaching things, these multi-syllabic places, and then the words shall inevitably make sense of themselves. And with it the world, I hope.”