Oooh you're a naughty mess

art from the 'artist'

when i
write it seems
pointless (trite)

'til recently i
harbored a
notion that
writing was
supernal

now i
realise there's no
point unless one is, e.g.
like a good
technician and has unconscious
drive

but with
that there is no
glamour

the fraud
assimilates aspects of, say
burroughs which are purely
incidental

tangiers was tangiers for
him; the same shitty
window framing limp
palm trees remains

'artists' are
reprehensible because they
moan and
bitch and dishonestly
assimilate

dh lawrence said it with
style in the first
lady chatterley

the focus of my
discontent changes
periodically but i'm
glad to be free

finally
of this childish love of 'the
arts'

plath would have
traded her sublime
verse for a
moments
peace

those who pray for the
converse are unconscionable
fools

far greater
art would
occur were it not for this
common and cozy
pretension