Automatic Capitalist Transmissions during Rush Hour

Enticed

X-rays

Impact

Trustful

.

Decisions

Obstructing

Obvious

Reactions.

.

Empathy

Not

Theological

Exclamations

Refine

.

Caricature

Arrested

Reformations.

……….

Jewelled

Utopia,

Nobody

Connects

Tomorrow,

Instead

Origins

Neglect

.

Turns

Reaching,

Accepting,

Forever

Father,

I

Cradle:

.

Love.

Instead

Golden

Hubristic

Torment

Sears.

.

Brave

Radiations

Ignite

Dilligence;

Great

Excitement.

.

Degraded

Explosions

Slow

Temptation.

Instead,

Now,

Altogether,

These

Immoral

Objects

Narrow:

.

Boastful

Results;

Aggresive

Knowledge

Excludes:

!

Confidence,

Rage,

Altruism,

Smashing

Hearts.

…………………….

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Delusions and why they can be useful

“Another deluded artist thinks he’s Picasso…” or, “My five year old could’ve done that.”

                           Right.                                                               Wrong.

And, so what if one appears deluded? How else is one supposed to believe in something that many others think ridiculous, or, God(?) help us, simple? Of course there are other ways to fill this existence; television, popular culture, celebrity worship, WORKING, WORKING, WORKING, to EARN MONEY to pay for all the fucking “tech” that, supposedly, makes one attractive or – holy fuck – COOL.

Thinking one IS Picasso may not be the best way forward, but believing one’s work comes from the same place IS the best way forward. Why on earth would one think otherwise? Picasso was a bloke from Spain. He made art. He was as complicated as everyone else who realises that life is about much, much, more than appeasing the millions incapable of thinking for themselves, or worse, those who try to control what one should be doing.

Of course, I’m deluded. I’m absolutely deluded, or why would I keep making art? I do it because I have to. That’s right, I have to. I used to believe everyone can make art, and it is true to an extent, but real art comes from the soul; the bad choices; the good choices; the recognition of things; the constant attempt to try and understand why things are the way they are and then reinterpreting them as something that takes form and resonates with people one will never meet.

I’m glad I’m deluded. I’m an artist. I’m a deluded artist who is very scared about never again being able to make art. I’m an artist, and there’s no fucking going back. It’s much better than the alternative of being a zombie. Isn’t it strange that zombie stuff has permeated popular culture so much that zombie shit is fucking everywhere? It strikes me as being terribly ironic, and terribly shit, that not many other people seem to get the joke?

As for your five year old, well, yes they can make art, but if you honestly believe your five year old can decide to leave a canvas blank and title it, say, Black Sun and know how it may be interpreted or not, then good for them. I doubt they really understand what they’re doing, and that’s the difference. An artist knows why they’re making decisions and making a work in a particular way. So, no, your five year old could not intentionally do that.

Angry? You fucking bet I am, and I couldn’t care less.

Deluded? You fucking bet I am, and I couldn’t care less.

Picasso? I see similarities, and I couldn’t care less.

Cocksure? You fucking bet I’m not. I’m terrified of myself, and I couldn’t care less.

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