Oooh you're a naughty mess

dornce wit mi, com on com on dornce wit me/ fiel passable/ starting in on espresso numero marcus and ekooting cherubini, medea/ failed to go out last night and instead kicked it with the gods, body prostrate floor bound (earth bound ghost nonsense), silken notes rolling around my vein-network and exploding like stars across my cerebellum/ most nice/ to wit, the music drew iron tears down mien cheek/ rounded off the eve-cum-nascent-dawn annoying the FOK un-in de selph viewing buk vidz/ if u thort the guy was death dull in print, witness him in interviews for a full and dazzling display of his talents/ he had an unparalleled ability to unflinchingly pronounce trite observations and teenage angst style views on politics, religion, metapharstikz andsetera/ he did show talent at times/ however he would boost his self-esteem by believing his own shit, thus stagnating and becoming a cringe-worthy caricature of himself/ traditionally great artists were forgiven their idiosyncrasies because of their talent, but since the emergence of the Writer, idiosyncrasies and a ceaseless need to carp on about them seem to be what da publik mistake for or, defeated by the status quo, accept as talent/ well at least he was far gone enough to not have to deal with the agony of self-realisation/ rest in peace, chinaski