Even in Noon sun, our shadows stretch sideways Staring at us, curiously peering down How many unanswered echos have we sent them They who follow us around as we tenderly tred the earth as your shoulder holds my head as you so graciously tend my heart as you read to me in bed Darker sides that hold our souls Whilst we yearn to fly away These mortal incarnations thus bind our souls another stay Twisting and turning shadows under you and I So playful, push each other into light
I want to be surrounded by the pure expressions of peoples being. The silt and the filth and the ether. The original kind of consumerism, a primordial craving for real-ness. I thirst for a crystalline vision straight from a mind prism not the superficial dust that a day can be spent arranging and rearranging, wondering what it means to everybody else.
Some 'artists' are entrepreneurs of channeled and honed aesthetics of everyones elses ideas of what art should be. Latent ta