I guess there's only so many cave etchings I can make before you believe in evolution
French and untouched, no displacement, I know that each etch was hacked
The stick figures jagged and uneven, but in a deliberate manner. Yet you still ignore it.
I even used red clay from the river bank to make you remember what it means to bleed.
The art snob in you saw it as Baudrillardian nonsense. But I predated him, artificially.
God, I feel like an idiot. Blisters on my fingers and callous that's whiter than the chalk marks in the cave.
Fuck.
Masterpiece of Dali clocks that are all working on broken tablets. I'll scatter them around so you can excavate them .
And then you can tell the world about how you're a great archaeologist, while you continue to tell me about that dashing engineer.
I'll delay the carbon dating till you're published, then let you be found as a fraud. Then when you're crying and distraught, I'll come.
I'm conflicted by a sick affliction. My artifice is a lie within a lie. But if I write you a love poem will it be true or is it just another excuse to self sabotage?
That's not to say I'm not fulfilling some sort of prescription. Male tiers are rarely seen, but we're all in a secret competition to see who can be the sickest.
Let's just go back to that cave. If you read the symbols you'd realize there was a hieroglyphic message for you.
Encumbered by the onus of interpretation, you'll fall to your knees and let it soak in. And the only way you'll experience my art is tactile because the next piece is going to be submerged.
Ocean deep, misgivings of a prolonged sob, I remain in a statuesque stasis. When you retrieve me, you'll find me encrusted in reefs and fungi.
But it's too dark to see, so all you'll do is scrape your gloved hands on my cheeks. And even though I had died many months ago, my heart will jump at the thought that you might come into contact with my skin.
The synthetic material simulates you caressing me. Verify my symptoms with the undertaker. Does Davy Jones have a place for a relic?
No, I'm broken. Only history to you, but to no one else. I'm not even worth the afterthought, a footnote in a collection.
French and untouched, no displacement, I know that each etch was hacked
The stick figures jagged and uneven, but in a deliberate manner. Yet you still ignore it.
I even used red clay from the river bank to make you remember what it means to bleed.
The art snob in you saw it as Baudrillardian nonsense. But I predated him, artificially.
God, I feel like an idiot. Blisters on my fingers and callous that's whiter than the chalk marks in the cave.
Fuck.
Masterpiece of Dali clocks that are all working on broken tablets. I'll scatter them around so you can excavate them .
And then you can tell the world about how you're a great archaeologist, while you continue to tell me about that dashing engineer.
I'll delay the carbon dating till you're published, then let you be found as a fraud. Then when you're crying and distraught, I'll come.
I'm conflicted by a sick affliction. My artifice is a lie within a lie. But if I write you a love poem will it be true or is it just another excuse to self sabotage?
That's not to say I'm not fulfilling some sort of prescription. Male tiers are rarely seen, but we're all in a secret competition to see who can be the sickest.
Let's just go back to that cave. If you read the symbols you'd realize there was a hieroglyphic message for you.
Encumbered by the onus of interpretation, you'll fall to your knees and let it soak in. And the only way you'll experience my art is tactile because the next piece is going to be submerged.
Ocean deep, misgivings of a prolonged sob, I remain in a statuesque stasis. When you retrieve me, you'll find me encrusted in reefs and fungi.
But it's too dark to see, so all you'll do is scrape your gloved hands on my cheeks. And even though I had died many months ago, my heart will jump at the thought that you might come into contact with my skin.
The synthetic material simulates you caressing me. Verify my symptoms with the undertaker. Does Davy Jones have a place for a relic?
No, I'm broken. Only history to you, but to no one else. I'm not even worth the afterthought, a footnote in a collection.
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