Sunday 25 January 2009


We Stuck Together
We stuck together. A random shambling stack of muscle and bones. Aged, and in some cases deranged, the street's dash marks skipped to the beat of our feet.Rolling wheeels and brain gears. A disease some could call it,this thing that swells and then seeps. Right out of the surface of skin, in the form of a transference. A creation. We shared these ideas and then kept moving, a pace that dictated around us. The sun would always come up,wouldn't it? The pace, it was relentless and unforgiving,leaving pages with words. And bindery. Photographs of memories. The efforts of those before us.
A need kept coming and we looked at each others' creations and agreed with moving lips. Like a daycare for art. Each nurtured thought made you show up late for what was important to the rest of the world.regular likings denied the differences until it was forced by repitition through some commodification. It stood up in the crowd and had something to say. You recognized your baby's voice from across the frozen tundra. A song. Whistling that it was no longer nap time,that you needed no time out when in the company of other creatives.
Tenigth after thae night plowed on, a forever grinding gear of companionship,shipped you off through love and obligation. Found yourself watching the night lights flash against the speed markers,headed towards the warmth. The place where dreams plugged in and come alive.
Pawing options enamored scrawls dawn on your skin. Another lovely night. A moment to just be yourself.
Look there. Hereit comes around again,the tireless machine with its look at me eyes. it hangs on a wall, it is flanked by friendly fire, by the known of knowns. nside security questions the routine. Acceptance of an equally desirous gesture towars an overall good. Fickle and obstreperous, the ideas flow out with increasing caution. Learned mistakes study reactions but still must operate from a place that simply does not give a fuck.
So we create for love and share or comiserate. Into the late hours. Of ife,it isnt a trial and there is no jury. Its not true,it's just you and you and some sort of reactionthat couldn't help but manifest itself outof your fingers. Lips soft part to say things and then recline into the folds of the community.
They all want a piece of you and you know it. Americans, slightly soft lay back and a trance drags angular pulling corners, longing eye dashes and hatch marks across another empty canvas. The city is yours. This part is anyways.
You get in your automobile filledwith art supplies and artful intentions in the back front and side of your mind. And what comes out?
Trivialities and niceness because we are still human, not the byproduct.The art monster. The art baby. The need to tell funny imaginative stories until bedtime. To stay forever young and inspired. relationships defined by nothing but wanting to be around this or that.
A color splashed here. Too much of this or that there. It drained you. it filled you. It happened this way this time. it happened that way that time. it didnt happen at all. Perfection without effort made you feel like you were alive A moment where we felt together.
It kept going and through it all, we stuck together.

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