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i am the dissident poetician...i tear down fences with sardonic sardines and metaphysical cucumbers

Tuesday, December 22, 2015


Art is dead. Don't piss in its fountain. You cannot put a price on real art. Spontaneous and absurd. Such is the nature of reality. We are all artists, pissing on the canvass of life from each passing moment to the next. Never hand over your sovereignty to anyone. We are all masters of our own destinies. Interconnected. Nothing but filthy animals, knocking at heaven's gate, only to find that there is no point to doing anything at all. Except all and everything. There is no rhyme, nor reason. All of existence is absurd. Signal waiting to pass from one node to the next one. Light seeking asylum from the darkness of existence itself. To live well is to have ventured into the depths of hell and back, only to come back more alive than ever. To put in just the tiniest bit of effort to create art for the sake of negation of society's ridiculous dictates is to knock on the door of all eternity. Life, itself, cannot be denied. It just goes on and on for all of eternity.

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