I am art (version 1)
I am art.
I hang from the wall and look down upon the heads of the students walking by. I see all: the churning brains thinking of new ways to find a root; the formidable accountants calculating how much money is left for beer on the weekend; the dandruff and the layers of product designed to conceal the dandruff.
I am art. Sometimes I feel eyes upon me. They follow me, those eyes. No matter where the head goes, I feel the eyes. There is hate in some eyes; others exude love in the electromagnetic frequencies. Most are confusion, or apathy, or smug satisfaction that they are better than I.
I am art. They see reds and fairy floss pinks. They see ochre, desert and flame, even splotches of the gayest mauve. I am this to unnerve them. Some come closer to smell my texture, and then I can see their own pheromones spiral in front of me like a million angry flies. Some touch me with fingers covered in the slick of pizza, or sticky with the juice of the last bourbon and coke they have spilt before coming to class.
I am art. I hear demons in blue overalls taking down others of my kind, replacing them with new blood, fresh from the abattoirs of the artist’s studio.
Those new ones are statutory and arrogant, but they will soon learn what I know, and be content with what they are.
I am art. I have risen from a palette of vengeance, a towering inferno of colour and texture. I know what it is to inspire fear, as I know what it is to frustrate the reaching mind. I take open minds and castrate them. I take closed minds and make bent forks of them. Without inhibition, without discrimination, without fear of retribution.
They are only heads, but I am art.
I am art (version 2)
I am art. I look down upon the heads of students.
Brains churning for ways to find a root; accountants allocating beer money; layers of product to conceal the smell.
I am art. Their eyes follow me no matter where the head goes. There is love, hate, confusion or apathy in electromagnetic frequencies.
I am art. They see fairy floss and toffee apple. Their pheromones spiral like angry flies. Their fingers grope me, sticky with pizza.
I am art. Demons in blue overalls bring pieces fresh from the abattoir — an artist’s studio. These new ones are arrogant, but they will soon learn what I know and be content.
I am art. I have risen from a palette of vengeance, a towering inferno of colour and texture. I take open minds and castrate them; I take closed minds and inspire them into ovulation. I do not discriminate, and I have no fear of retribution.
They are only heads, but I am art.
I am art (version 3)
I am art. I look and see only heads.
No matter where the head goes, their eyes always follow.
They see fairy floss and toffee apple. I see their pheromones — angry flies, feel their fingers sticky with pizza.
I have risen from a palette of vengeance. I take open minds and castrate them; I take closed minds and inspire them into ovulation.
They are only heads, and I am art.
I am art (version 4)
I am art. I see only heads.
They see fairy floss and toffee apple; I feel fingers sticky with pizza.
I have risen from a towering inferno of colour and texture. I take open minds and castrate them; I take closed minds and inspire them into ovulation.
They are only heads, and I am art.