I am broken.
You are broken.
Everything is broken.
Drop the wine glasses.
The bottle, slam it down. I want to feel something cut into my feet.
What would we do without creation?
What would we do without moving? without the Move?
away from the tangible and losing
ourselves in the murky depths of
pure ideas and fancy.
I call art clarity.
It may be a drunken one. In Vino Veritas. or whatever the fuck.
It may be a bit mad. a bit Mad.
But clear still.
I'd much prefer to use it as a wormhole
than some bloke's physical law.
and DOWN the hatchet she flies -