i can’t write about god or art but i can piece together divine fragments of the words of others and hope that they spell out our new religion

images accumulate and abstracts swarm and puddle around my ankles… why my thoughts decided to rest there i don’t know; they are weak, but they help me stand and so i suppose they laid the foundation for my entire being

there are certain colors that when combined in any form provide a pleasing scene, but they’re all the same, they’re all trees and hills and lakes and naked bodies, but do we really need anything more?

you could kiss the landscape of my weak ankles and the spatters you left behind would be more beautiful than they could be on any other canvas