Byline: Fists and Whiskey
For anything great to happen requires a long obedience. Seizing and disseminating disruptive ideas can get lonely real quick. Don't get discouraged. Keep whittling away while studying sacrosanct scripts.
Allow the children to play, lose their way and get loose with their lives. Stay on point and try to improve as a person. It will help you improve as a painter, poet or peddler of improvisation.
Hunting for hidden dimensions, looking for life in death's valley, taking pleasure from separation I hope to someday find my peace. Hence the pursuit of persuading rather than observing, gathering and interpreting reactions to experience, expectations, behaviors and outcomes. I persist to insist or at least pretend to do so.
Simple human truths unearthed, markets identified and messages created force me to respect the mystery, dignify the style, and denigrate the hate. I keep on the look out for new methods of decorating with guitars and saxophones. The fire du jour, crises of the week seem meaningless at midnight when passion and blue notes blur agendas broke down on battered boulevards where butter fried sized lies clog the arteries.
Fists and whiskey negate identities gone crazy on corn liquor. Damnations of the flesh, temptations of the soul drive the night wild while bulldozer bass lines thump and bump the speaker cabinet silly. Winners of the rock and roll lottery sit back, relax then peel off the edges with masking tape.
With a world to win, a life to loose, staying true is easier said than felt. The great obligation of the arts to make you feel like you've been someplace emotionally, mentally and physically resemble the great narcotic escapes of life's complications. Video games killed the spray paint star but the real heroes know you can never go too far.
Dispatches from the soul, the soulless and the lost, leapfrog ahead past painkillers and peacemakers bearing false pleasure. Beyond the melodic line generating unreasonable thoughts, beyond the cost of war, forests of azure and ancient heavenly connections rise forth. It is always the fallen who are considered the life blood of art circles.
Everybody dead knows exactly these things that I speak.
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