We're jamming and dreaming about ice cream running up and down our bodies and we're dreaming like whispered sweat like the calluses on my mother's hands and the tears on my cheeks.
I'm convinced I'm not of this place.
Just like I'm an artist and a vagrant
Suicidal homicidal scatophilic runaway
Self acclaimed whore.
It all seeps out like aromatherapy candles digging through our bodies, boring holes in the skin given to us by our mothers and fathers who came here on ships just to bring. Us.
And we're unsettled because we're from somewhere else. We're foreigners of society because we're homosexual dangerous pedophilic angry beautiful freaks
And the losers.
We all crawl around in a circle burning our religious markings and branding ourselves with the poison we call art.
On the way home dizziness overtakes us and in the morning the ditch is cold and hard on my back that is twisted in agony but has never had to work a day in its overprivelidged miserable life.
It's all over as we creep back into our blank rooms waiting for nightfall so we can worship in our carnal circle of anger and spirituality and rebellion.
So we can worship.
This poison called art.