I feel like pickles. Yep. Squishy yet somewhat hard with a sweetly sour taste.
I feel like pickles. Long and green, thick in the formaldehyde that has them frozen in a jar.
I feel like pickles. Bumpy and jumpy, flawed in texture to the point where the mere sight of them makes you cringe and shiver and spit and rip words like stems of flowers and other poetic shit that describes how you talk shit and don’t give a shit about whether or not I give a shit… Which I don’t. I do, but I don’t. I try to slide my pancakes down the apron of the stage like the fat ugly cook I am with a talent out-gauged with a bit of butter and a pinch of sage– and what do you do? You Eat waffles. Goddamn Belgian waffles. A year ago I liked you; a year ago I didn’t know you.
Now I still don’t know you, but you shouldn’t look at me like you’ve got some magic telescope that says my mind “ain’t dope” and you skip the “hellos” and go straight to the “nopes”
while I sit in the Jell-O of that waddle-waddle soap and breathe your eyes that spawn inner convos of one-sided nature– I can’t cope.
So I don’t give a shit that you’ve got none to give. Go sit in your pie, I’ve got mountains to climb. But if you do find some shits to give, let me know–
Cuz I still feel like pickles.
Free, True, Love bby
One year ago today, I was… a Testicle. Now before you crucify me for living as such an abomination, allow me to explain my ascent to enlightenment and how the approving Native American is involved.
‘Twas a dark and stormy night, and all the Arizonans were tucked in there beds all tight. Mexicans in Twinkie trucks crossed the border, and IHOP was still open for your midnight order.
A lonely owl hooted a broken tune (it had enough rat in its throat to clog a bassoon) while crackheads shared a trash-can feast with a not-too-rabid raccoon.
Well I don’t give two shits about immigrants, owls, bassoons, or even raccoons, cuz I live in North Carolina. So why am I telling you a story about Arizona? Because that is the very place my blind stereotyped mind pictures a Native American reservation to be.
So why all this nitty-gritty depressing imagery? And why am I asking you questions, when I’m going to answer them myself anyway?
Well that’s because everyone likes IHOP. Especially a wandering Native American who has decided to leave the fenced-in reservation because all the close-minded Testicles (a “Testicle” is any one person who wishes to be a lump in a sack of flesh that hangs beneath a human male’s genitals and then proceeds to be a total asshole in life) have been getting him down and he just needs to escape before the madness of being trapped consumes him entirely and the only thing that lifts his dwindling spirits from falling into a void of evils forbidden that I promised that I will NEVER DO–
Is an IHOP. Open at midnight, as always. Its bountiful supply of nocturnal pancakes are enough to cheer up the poor Native American, and that’s all he needs to approve of you.
So give me some pancakes.
Free, True, Love, bby.
Beef cats ride the elephants painted as dragons into deeper tunnels on the Kraft cheese moon that orbits the crumbling hump of tiger temples echoing the hearty hurrahs of pharaohs nonexistent whom once thought of flying on the backs of shell-less turtles but were instead eaten by the snakes hidden behind their own lips– only now can the sheep-fish run free to die all over again.
I’ll be waiting for them in my rocket ship.
I wrote this “Artist Statement” for a digital photography class in my school. This is the last time I will be in this class, so I went all out on it and threw as much donkey shit as Mr. Tickles could muster at the screen. Enjoy.
Art has no functional purpose in society. Any civilization could survive without art, and may actually could progress further without it. The only purpose I find in art is a human purpose. Art can connect a million minds to one and spur new ideas, new perspectives, and even revolutions. It is an unspoken communication of emotions that just might make the world join hands and sing Kum-Bay-Yah. There is a certain power within art and all of its apostles. I find this power to be my intrinsic motivation in life– an eternal flame. To create, no matter what form, keeps my mind open and my heart singing. I do not need art to live, but in need it to be happy. I believe art can change the world. Everyday we hear about who killed who, what country has collapsed, how many people are kidnapped, how many people are sick– we are all dying. This mortality we must live hangs over my head like cloud of soot and empty lightning. I have had thoughts of suicide because of this. For a while I had lost all hope, and the only thing I could think of was dying. Eventually I had to make a choice: die or push on. Seeing that you’re reading this means I chose the latter, and I must say I am much glad I did. When we lose hope, then all is lost. Death is everywhere. It can only be dissipated by one emotion: love. Now when I say love, I mean all forms of love: romantic, plutonic, family, internal, external, whatever. Life’s entire purpose is to feel. What are dollar signs, trophies, conquered lands, or any achievements without feeling happy– without feeling the hearts of the species we all belong to? That’s why I live– to feel the love. If I can feel the love from others and from myself, I can find the will to live– the will to create a better day– the will to hope. Love is what inspires me. My photography, in this class, is not at all serious. Most of it I can hardly understand myself. It simply makes me feel good, and even laugh a little. I only hope that when I put Ellen Degeneres’s head on a hippo with a dancing pickle riding a rainbow in the background that someone may feel a little better, and even laugh a little. I honestly couldn’t tell you how I come up with my shizznit photos. I can only guess that I pick out objects in my mind that are the most attractive visually, comedically, or conceptually. The art I make is simply an expression of my emotions towards what I desire. The one thing I desire most is to feel good. Seeing a T-Rex ride a flying unicycle into a piranha hurricane whilst singing “Come On, Eileen” gives me a tingly feeling inside that I call “good.” And since I burn only for that good feeling, I can say that my art means everything to me.
freaking horse heads don’t get it when a gorilla hawk tries to rip his future husband from the clutches of a vivacious sloth whom has just become Nevada’s new governor and is on a trip to the edge of Hong Kong’s lemon expressway where the sun doth shine the moon doth grow into a giant green crab-wolf that can spit fire that smells like melted cheese sticks slipping down peanut-brittle slides built on candy corn playgrounds that attract only the ugliest of shooting-star babies (although their comet streams streak the longest across the sky) that were clubbed by leopard seals with cricket bats forged from the eternal flames of Love.