The artist grows fuzzy - turns
red-orange-pinkishly indistinct – while
exactitude reigns in outlining articulate
sharp thin black lines that confine
the pastel-hued shenanigan standing
in back of the artist in billowing curves –
as if it is the vision
the artist deserves –
amid other lines twining around like
the miscreant creatures they are. Welcome
to this part of whatever star cooked up all
of their leptons and quarks to eject them
eruptively out to become the odd
business they’ve been in this twisted
existence so far – this opera buffa –
this bloop of bizarre bazaar.
.
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