Once upon a time there was a surreal artist who never showed up. His work was so sublime it elude him. And everyone else. There was no escape. Nor there was any proof. The artist simple didn’t show up. Ever. And that’s how he became know as the greates surrealist artist of his generation.
The complete acomplishment took place within the realms of his mind. The roads from neuronal secondary roads lead to a brilliant display of inconclusive facts. Just chains of letters that competed with a new sequence of zeros and ones. Or double helix patterns. Whatever that stands for. Fuck it, I’am NEW surrealism. Altogether. Megalomaniac impulse to grasp no fruit. No sense. Just sensitivity. Inside a shell. Within yourself.
You’ll never scape this spell. There ain’t no time. As elasticity has taken over adapting to the newest time of relevance. Revelations scatter once again in the mist of the portrait drawn momentarily in his mind. Wait: picture it. Oh, shit, it’s gone. Again. The elusivity is intact. Working like the first day when it encounter the wondering soul. It was love at first sight. Immediate passion. A click; wink.
I thought I was a normal person. But I lied. To myself, at first. So I had to take a hands on posture within my internal quarrell. This could not go on. Selfsabotage is cruel disgrace. And someone, from the inside, has to fight it till the end. So the end showed up. Time was up again. And nobody showed up. The expectators awaited the entrance of the performer. He never showed up. In the 99 minutes that lasted the show. But nobody cared. Surrealism stood up. And blessed the scene. Quietly disturbing every mind.
Nobody clapped at the end of the show. The silence was broken. People exited the main theather of the mind. And the time was liberated from the surreal spell they went to experience. Oh, that was something else, someone said. And people long one another. The vacuity filled their experience and the thrill to share the now; here.
Something worked within surreal terms. The class was dismissed. Everybodies mind was filled with a hole. Everyone did the magic, but it only served the will of the collective soul that bounced around the show above their heads. The place was holly. And sound discrete, yet continiously revolving the magma of the desired dream. Joy was pleased to meet Joyce.
Lovemaking was on everyone’s mind. So why deny that misterious spell. Oh, well. The waters, black, rose up in the basket from the deep currents of the well. Swell. Drink up, it’s a toast to glory. Here; now; then. I’ve come accross your eyes to flow through you once again. Let’s run naked into the sun. As life’s begun again. I can feel it. You/me, no longer: ALLS………