physicality makes art
the act of forming an idea the act of picking up the paint and laying it down, every stroke adding a new step towards that final realised piece.
there\'s art in fucking
there\'s cloudy skies in the stains we left
I see a dove of hope fluttering towards the holy heavens from the fold in the bedsheet\'s that my knuckle pale tight hand left there
the beauty of fucking is that its the only time between death and birth when you can find safety in the soft warmth of anothers parts; the cunt becomes home once more to the screaming lost soul that it so viciously cast out so long ago.
it’s a time for rebirth.
the viscera and blood take you right back to the start and the stillness afterwards shows you the smooth whisky drink of death that you will eventually share.