Count the Straight Days.

Day 1.

Looking at people trying to
notice details anything to be
interested in the festering flesh
stream that drips by
Sad except for the buoyant packages
of explained hope, a teens leg
a proud bottox an escaped
cleavage, I stare at these without
sunglasses cause it's not that bright.
My only thought is how can
I sell
myself

The composure of flesh, bits of
different colored cloth, noses chins
handed down, in genetic groupings
each walking a threads line
before it and a thread behind
to tangle triangle
Sitting here by the trucks,
the 5% of deviance visits
to shit on my shoulder.

"How much's your band" ( oh sorry
I'm sure it's worth it. But
you're so average your product
so predictable, there's no line
you'r crossing no new ground
only a stir of stagnated waters
the smell )

"Hello would you like some cricket vouchers
( Cricket - that noble team sport, 5 days
of doing very little, maybe living, now
a commercial beer barrel of disassociation,
nationalism a boy hood cut
at the knees buried in the tarmac
to grow ).

To eat in a cafe
To meet with the people
who have money you
have to have money
I don't! The breeders
the normals who are
all making money
and spend it, I have
this note book and the
words spilled upon it.
I want to nail each of
these heads split them open
examine the rings how they
do it - breath this poisoned
air and smile, prefer it
Maybe they don't know how
different I am,  here
where difference has been won
A threat is a co -option
in new realestate, Right
B-
I'm holier than thou
I don't have to sell
You sell whore!
I exist
in love,
Your hands are dirty, your
blood is murky, your every
step is compensating
over execution of your righteousness
that your corruption is so
everyday you'r normal
What makes me different, that
I can't get paid?
You'r getting paid
I live on the surplice
of your over work
miss lead efficiency
providing everything
except the joy
Joy that lives
Joy shared, given Free
strings attached -
Joy on the condition
that we Are all equal.
Joy Felt in the demonstration
of that so,
Joy in the fever
of inequality being
healed
Time effort money
a simple profit of Joy.

Where can I build
Where the land is porous
swampy stable in its
image as the origin
of life distracted by
platforms of performance
faces, tuppaware
Bricks containing feces,
Building houses, product wasted
Why critique the system?
The System is Critique.


If I am a Public Artist no more,
no longer paid to make
public art.
I have  to make something happen
that will make enough money
to live
Since I do not want to live
in this system but want
everyone to live in mine.

ARE YOU LIVING
A GOOD LIFE.