Apologetic Abstractionist

to my any                        humiliated heroes
for who
i have not met

dedicated to
blank spaces
in a million

by the power
invested in

i now declare
you michael
bolton lost
at sea

imagine that
picture that
let it settle
forget it in the kettle

enrich vogue hair styles and shave your head

and balls.

how tacky a thing to write about

i as an artist remain “obscure as a lillie” to not offend     perhaps        selfish?

yet what i have written is _____ you decide          wait     no

honestly         well        i’m working on my problem        with sharing        too much information

i stray away above beside under in front close distance

constipated slice of turd                       morning sprints in an emotional wheel chair              a bass playing bass

sideshow freak                                                                                                                                         concrete doughnuts

next album        :       “syringes and doughnuts”           released by the next itouch touch             the next itune tune

in a musical world where         the number one         best drummer ever in the world     lives in a small pro tools town

called Reason, obedient        to a mouse and not      a muse

Harry Crosby

Santa Clause is Harry Crosby I have been a fan of non-existent excuses. all in the paradox paramedic mind clenching the landscape of voluminous validation, true reasons for new thoughts validating imaginary hopes of kids diagnosed with pill addiction with pills. the seven year old tested and fed speed. now fast forward twenty years, paint a portrait of me with colors of blending change speak and endure me like a simile. like a shark of honor. like a shark of horror in the needle of a whore. strangely riding under the wave of a running tide madness. films play I said films play it twice in front of me without a fee. the air of the confusing illusion, the air of the confusion of me, the shore of the beach where everyone but me walks with a beaten lover, stupify little meditations of a hippie hand. the sand is wet, that is for sure, meaning an ocean of shit has had a tide near you hear me clear? inviting in the first sighting. no one takes a liking to my scripture so why offer to it anyone to publish? and fuck the question mark i put after that previous sentence. such a sense of immense weakness. that i am so tired of wearing on my sleeveless shame. no girl. only wish. plenty of fish, in the sea. just swam the sewer pipes for 7 years. the tears of muck provided me a guilty fuck. you (me?) yeah you (right there) you (me?) oh god my god aint one, ya kiddin?