Art Intimidating Life - The Ruins of my Mental Empire: Part Fifty-Five

i invest my time
thinking about
the butterfly effect

sleeping with the devil
is the only way
to fuck with god

im scared to think
so i'll keep talking
im scared to talk
so i'll keep thinking
- eventually i won't have to do either

the diary of the sane man
stumbled upon
by the mad-man

chain smoking incense sticks

a break through
in thought -
and in cloud

every piece of music
is played in synch
with something
that's taking place
somewhere

all my floating day-dreams,
aimless and carefree
- clouded by dreamers

at the end of the world
the sun-set
will finally get it's due recognition

spend the night alone -
or waste it
with someone else

the violin
plays
for everyone

soon this whole city
will be nothing but
one big speed-hump

guide-dogs
walk themselves

if you only live once
you only die once
- but you'll never be happy

walking home from work
the work colleague
sees me drinking alone

national parks
are like
Mother Nature's breast implants

bearded man
- it's okay for you
to drink alone

beautiful stranger
- you can pass through
my life anytime

the hairdresser
performs his craft
- slightly depressed

the hard part
is getting people
to save me
without getting people
to help me

the hard part is
saving people
without helping them

my beer sweats warm
- eavesdropping the chatter-girls,
i wear the sunglasses

some things in life
are no trouble -
pull up a seat sometime

the secret friendship
goes unnoticed
across the table-chatter of friends

treat them mean,
keep them keep -
and pretend you're a decent guy

my heart's a joke -
my mind is laughing,
but my soul doesn't get it

i sit at this bar alone,
with memories
in every empty seat

now i have a future,
the pretty girls
seem so serious

i drink alone
i think alone
- i write for you

the mona lisa
was such
a poser

the mona lisa
drank alone

the fear of offending
is the great burden
art must overcome

life is crowded
i am busy
- art is solitary

to be misunderstood
is a sign that
you're on the right path



if life is perfect,
you're fooling yourself
if everything is fucked,
sit down and have a drink
if you're content,
go to bed - you have to work tomorrow

Art Intimidating Life - The Ruins of my Mental Empire: Part Fifty-Four

tears don’t scare me – nothing can change the human mind from unraveling after the butterfly pin-prick of self-analysis pushes wave after wave of sorrow and misery into the surrounding souls that gather around in care and kindness – they fall like rusty cans of beans in an over-grown suburban backyard – dangerous and frail – and as the sun screams in the face of planet earth, flake music tinkerbells as shards of rust disintegrate into the dry soil, hardened by barefooted cricket games played by children despite the heat and the acquired joys of relaxation that sleep somewhere around the corner, in the last pocket of shade anywhere in the world – or so it seems

dust chokes as you fight through another bout of laughter – another near death experience to bring your friendships into perspective, another point of view laid to rest – another answer forgotten forever, to the questions there were none – a scratch on the arm, a drawing of blood to demonstrate life imitating art – the dust absorbs it – sun-cream seeps into the pores of our skin as sweat waits for the air to someday cool – a sand attack somewhere behind the laughter of our neighbours backyard bbq – the moment escapes our memories – I retreat into oblivion, unsure whether they can still see me surrounded by such mellow and relaxed trees and people – my breath could stop, yet I wouldn’t die – this moment would be painted, and melted into the ever flowing gush of eternity – a single moment - they will have to trust me that it did actually take place – the perfect laziness confuses the giddy sun-drunkeness that pulls us deeper into the blinding-bliss, as we remain complete oblivious living some sort of lucid-day-dream

what are the things that will never change? – the warmth of sleep – the fatigue of sand – the electric-tingles of human contact - the loud silence of trying not to wake a loved one

nothing in life is the same, much like electricity - summer fades in time to a winter warmer than winter and our friends never agree - our deaths live in poetry, but our travels die in haiku - sleep wonders about the ghosts that haunt the spare-bedrooms of our rented houses - no sound that resonates against any air of heat or atmosphere like the echo of an empty beer can - loud enough that only you can hear it from eye-distance away - sure, why not? - toss and smash that bottle empty bottle of four dollar champagne to crash and smash somewhere along the eastern-train-line - the sun is bothering someone else by now - some other family is talking and sharing stories and drinking controlably - let yourself go

in the back seat you fear the sunburn that is out of your control - subtle and pathetic positions of your limbs may make a difference, you hope - yet your blood boils cold as they pull over as it's a perfect day for a swim - the cold beers are warm now - you drink them anyway, safe in the knowledge you're with like-minded friends, and some alcoholic hitch-hikers

his denim was warm and loose - you couldn't find a man in them - pulling on them felt like an endless dream-time in which you declared your name and that somehow made a difference to the person sleeping next to you - who is writing down your sleep-talks? - a boy at the death-shadows of his soon-to-be idol's idol - another fucking beach! - is it really such a small world? or are we so pathetically scared and huddled together, afraid and scared to be alone?

i lose her - and for moments i am a solitary man standing in a field - the same dust - the same dry grass - some-where in the distance someone is fucking someone else over - grains of dust and sand move over my boots without my knowledge - until i take the time to realise where i am, and notice what i am doing...

a dust-warm beer - sweaty man, i suppose - but clean, and friendly to the mothers