Category: Visual Arts

No, there’s the Sunday Comics; I just get up and walk away. “If it ain’t broke, don’t try to fix…” Well, life’s supposed to be this way. Now everything is going wrong — I think I changed my mind again — I’m not sure if this is a song — I don’t even know what I’m saying —

In a painted foreground at the bottom is a famous anamorphic which, when viewed side-long, is revealed to be the Sunday Comics.

Words are few I have spoken, I could waste a thousand years. Sunday Comics, words are token;
come inside and catch my tears. You’ve been talking but, believe me, if it’s true you do not know.

Now they’re frightened of leaving it; everyone’s weaving it, Sunday Comics all the time…All through the day, I me mine.

The yam brought it out of the Sunday Comics, manipulated Bill Clinton with desires…24/7, 365 days times two, I was contemplatin’ gettin’ on stage just to go back to the hood see my enemies and say, “Man, where you when I was walkin’?”

She stands beneath the mistletoe screaming for him to “read the Sunday Comics now,” screaming…Now I can’t help but feeling jealous each time she climbs on his knee, why must she climb on his knee?

Seems as if my half baked hot takes, like, “if there is a heaven it’ll be highly unlikely any of our Sunday Comics are there just because of our back catalogues.” are apparently insensitive and a testament to my alcoholic thinking.

The old ramshackle house with the broken down porch and the novelty doorbell? The lights are still on…Zoe plays her music low, she’s got a bottle on the go
Everything’s in boxes it’s been a long night packing. “What the fuck is all this stuff?”

I keep my hands dirty, my mind clean. Got a new agenda with a new dream. I’m kicking out the old regime: Liberation, elevation, education — America, you a lie.

The virginal brides file past his tomb, strewn with time’s dead flowers. Bereft in deathly bloom; alone in a darkened room? The count.