I don’t know when I found art. it must have been a mistake, stumbled upon it, tripped over it looking for something to ogle.

it feels like it came from punk. or the basic aesthetic originated there. graffiti as well. the train cars and murals on the underpass.

I remember it took being shocked to find beauty the first time.

I didn’t get it before then. when I was a kid they had an American flag on the ground at the entrance to the modern art museum and you were supposed to walk over it. there was an uproar. I felt it was slippery and made a poor rug.

tomato potato

it was all shapes and stupid to me as a kid. some still is. and don’t get me started on Warhol and the art of prints.

so years later on i saw a woman nodded off, needle dangling out of arm and a naked man feverishly licking the entry point.

it all clicked in my head. it was not the beautiful that made art. it was the filthy. on to John Waters. Pink Flamingos. B movies, fucking C movies for that matter.

the black velvet painting of Hitler, Gacy Dahmer and I always forget the fourth on the wall at the Exit.

the first time I saw bondage night upstairs at the same bar. silk tie as a leash, silk boxers and expensive socks being walked around the room as Guinness rained down my throat like the mead of the gods.

ugly got my rocks off. still does. awkward silences.

trashier the better

skateboarding and drinking too much

i want harder drugs, this basic existence is not enough.

Like POS says in Faded, I need more.

this turned meandering, didn’t it my love? it started on art and became less. ugly filthy dirty mind

somehow over and under sexed at one frustrated time

more fucked up than I realize, less than would be optimal

just enough to be clear

Maplethorpe, his photos. they are oddly satisfying. Geiger. Hunter’s words. Corman. ugh

lost it, like a butterfly made of smoke just poof and gone

a bag of dicks to beauty

except you. duh. hugs.

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