An Artist’s Malaise

The other Morning in South Minneapolis, Whittier,

 

Shoelace belt, Minneapolis shirt, still spending time up some girlfriend’s skirt.

Work’s work, to pay rent; slow money, having patience to get a paycheck.

And then I bike home…

 

***

Everyone is an artist regardless.

If they’re famous or paid, that’s dependent on the market.

 

An Artist’s Malaise.

 

Marked margins.

Guided goals.

 

On your own-alone.

 

Other days, we sit in bed.

We sit all day.

We sit with our best friends while playing games.

 

That’s love, that’s what remains…

 

Food, water, clean clothes, and an hour long shower, I am restarted back to full power for about four hours.

Then some slumber.

 

Appliances seeking placement, people looking for a fix.

Witness get this: I resist, I resist.

Or open wrists.

 

Articles sit in the basement with dust, centipedes, and roaches.

Modern Dungeon, with real-life poses.

Leaves me needing lotions and potions.

 

Water through osmosis, smell the fucking roses.

Waking up.

 

Stretch, yawn, gone.

 

Then I sit back…

 

 

 

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