As unlikely as it seems, seams are seamless. It seems, madams, that seams are a stress for most mistresses. The thing about them is that they don't stitch trousers. Pants are best left to the dogged. The day my nuts touch the tarmac is the day I come down to earth. Coming down is never easy; despite gravity. Despite gravity, levity is a lot for the lightweights. I can't wait to be so lacking in body that I float upwards. Seemingly, death is the end of consciousness. I remember well the time before I was born. So too, no doubt, I'll be equally happy in retirement. It has many in stitches. I'll have to fly about now. Yet again, I've satisfied my mistress. If you don't believe me, just ask me. There are quite a few faecal fumes festering, funnily. Seems and is: opposite.
If there's one thing I can't stand it's a two-legged chair. Furniture should have three legs, at least. At most, furniture should have four legs. At most. At least, most does. The most the least does is the least the most does. Mostly, chairs are sat on but sometimes they can be worn like a hat. If a waiter ever shows you to your hat you'll know what I mean. I mean that hats are usually soft and forgiving like cushions. Cushions for the bottom are known as arse-pillows. The least a waiter can do is take your coat. Unless of course it has the bottoms of trousers sewn onto the hem. Sitting starkers in a seat is a silly sight. The most I can do now is shove off. The least I can do is state the haemorrhaging obvious. Least and most: you decide.
If you've ever found yourself suddenly on the nostril, you'll know that it's hard to tell when you're on the nose. It's one of the leading causes of social slippage. There can be no question that answers to leading questions are leading nowhere. Engage yourself with some tale chasing at your own discretion. Unquestionably, answers are the leading responses to leading questions. It's the great quest of all our lies. Bad breath, so seriously smelly, can come from the belly or the baitcatcher. The baitcatcher is another word for the wordwhistler, yet another for foodfossicker. So, next time you find yourself on the wrong end of a bad fall, just lay back and enjoy the ride back into obscurity. Never fret, my little guitars, because truth also lies in obscurity. Forget the fact of what I'm inferring here. Bad breath and minties: opposite.
It's not all together unfair to say that a certain degree of levity is required to aspire to reach the giddy heights of a laddertop. The top rungs of ladders are populated by the greatest feets. Great feets are bound to heels that have no flaw. If you're atop a ladder you're a long way from being floored. It'll only take one slip to send you to sleep. For good and bad, you are as you are and you are beyond you're own reckoning. I reckon you already know this so just focus in on some distraction. The top of a ladder and a bellybutton: fluffy.
It's a far cry from crying but laughing is more or less the same. The same is more or less the same as different. It makes no difference to me that the same for me is the same for you. It's the same difference, entirely. Laughing, the belly bellows, feels fairly fine fairly frequently. Crying is more or less different, entirely. The two are entirely different. In other words, the same. Same and different, if I may be maybe so intellectually bold, are construction workers' knitting noodles. It's a vexxing issue that demands our undivided sandwiches. You could scour this post all day and it'll always come up smelling of noses. There's not a splinter in it. Words, so fit for human consumption, are deeply adequate when it comes to airs and graters. That reminds me. I'm not going into it here. Needless to say, needless to say. Crying and laughing: opposite.
Artists, worthy of new careers, are challenging issues. Issues: pretence. Their careers, curators’ perceptions, are increasing. The commentaries under the pretence of art are artists’ issues. Artists issue careers in art. Visual art: the perceptions of pretence of visual artists.
Gags, the careers of curators, cost artists their art at increasing cost. The artists, curators of art to themselves, are the careers of the platitudinous. Platitudinous, the public are the artists of their perception. Their perceptions: social and visual pretence.
Pretence, an artists’ curator, is a curator of social perception. Knowing pretence is a career in art. On and under, artists are curators of their careers at art’s cost. The public are, almost. Almost themselves, the public are social pretence.
Are careers of artists a social pretence? Art is increasingly a career. A curator is an increasing cost. Knowingly, turning visual art to cost the public, artists are curators of attention. Artists’ turning their attention to art is their careers(?).
A career is increasingly art. Curators’ careers depend on artists. Artists depend on art. Art is a commentary on art. That the public are ‘knowing’, issues artists to publicly gag. Their perceptions: that the ‘art-careers’ are turning art to shit.
Knowing curators depends on attracting their costly attention to public pretence: their careers. Attention to art costs the public their social pretence of knowing artists. Turning increasingly platitudinous, curators’ comments on artists are an increasingly costly cost. Under artists: art.
Art, the knowing perception of artists, is, under the curators’ perceptions, knowing artists. Artists, knowing art, are artists. Platitudinous, curators are a scandal. To artists, the public are a pretence the curators comment on. Attention curators: careers are a gag.
Commentaries, the careers of curators, are a social pretence. The artists gag. The public, a scandal of the curators’ pretence, are attracting ‘titillating’ turns in an artist’s career. Turning to curators, an artist’s career is a social commentary: a scandal.
Issues, newsworthy and a titillation to the public, are, under an artist’s perceptions, a gag. The social are, to a curator, artists’ careers. Careers are platitudinous. Social, careers are a platitudinous art. Art is aplatitudinous. Careers are a gag, increasing.
Knowing that pretences are perceptions, their artists are increasingly themselves, and curators are turning public. The public, turning challenging, are attracting artists’ comment. The challenging public is challenging. Challenging, the public are challenging themselves to careers and turn to art.
Increasingly, scandal and titilation is a career the curators are publicly turning artists to. To artists, art is increasingly a career of perceptions. The cost: art. Art, mostly the career of artists, is increasingly a career for the curators’ pretence.
Pretence, an issue of perception, is a career for curators and the public. An artist’s pretence is art. Art is pretence. Knowing this is an artist’s titilation. Cost, the public’s platitudinous titilation, is turning curators’ to pretending to know art.
Knowing curators depends on attracting their costly attention to public pretence: their careers. Attention to art costs the public their social pretence of knowing artists. Turning increasingly platitudinous, curators’ comments on artists are an increasingly costly cost. Under artists: art.
Art, the knowing perception of artists, is, under the curators’ perceptions, knowing artists. Artists, knowing art, are artists. Platitudinous, curators are a scandal. To artists, the public are a pretence the curators comment on. Attention curators: careers are a gag.
Commentaries, the careers of curators, are a social pretence: the artists gag. The public, a scandal of the curators’ pretence, are attracting ‘titilating’ turns in an artist’s career. Turning to curators, an artist’s career is a social commentary: a scandal.
If there's one thing that I can't bear, it's children. I simply can't have them. It's a feeling that has been growing inside me for many years. Heightened by a growing awareness of myself, my reluctance to bear children, you might say, has been forced upon me by my nature. Nature has it that, motherhood is for mothers and mankind is very much so. Vey much so is vey much like extremely. Extremely unlikely is it that I'd ever be able to stand a tripod with two legs. It's no coincidence that I have often been compared to a two-legged stand. Often I have been likened to a pair of trampolines wrestling over a linoleum hand-jacket. Kids are just a scapegoat to some but, this just adds up. I don't think I'll ever be able to take kids. Just don't have it in me to abduct anyone. Much less an innocent of any kindness. There are just so many kidders I can hardly conceive. I'm more of an idiot than savvy. Of nature and nurture, give me either, or either. I'll leave the labour to the ladies and they can also do the work. The former and the latter: opposite.
Nobody can be exactly what they are not. What they are not is left entirely to another. What another is not is what somebody is. That somebody could be what another is not is obvious. Obviously, that somebody, a relative nobody without another, is not what they themselves are not. Everything but. Everything but what another is not constitutes the make-up of that somebody. That somebody could be just about anybody. That somebody could be just about anybody is obvious. Another reason to believe less and less in the majesty of your own persona is all this bodily business. Bodies go with minds like works go with plumbers. Everybody is what another is not. What another is not is what everybody is. That this is obvious is obvious. Obviously, everybody would like to think that they are separate and distinct. Nobody is. Like back and front, everybody has a nobody. Like every body: back and front. Nobody and everybody: opposite.
That the public are increasingly under the pretence that artists are themselves newsworthy almost issues artist to publicly gag. The public, under their increasing pretence of knowing, are, to artists, the cost of the artists’ careers: their careers cost art.
The artists’ public gags, attracting the attention of challenging curators, are almost their careers. The artists’ perceptions career to the curators’ pretence. Under the pretence of art, the public, issues themselves, turn to gag artists. Artists gag at their careers.
The curators cost the artists their perceptions under the pretence of their careers turning increasingly public. Artists are artists. Knowing that, curators depend on their careers to attract attention at the cost of social commentaries. The issues are mostly curators.
The commentaries, under the pretence of art, are public perceptions of pretence. The public are a pretence the curators depend on. Pretence is an artist’s career. Knowingly, the curators are increasingly turning to art for careers. Artists are increasingly turning.
Knowingly, and turning visual, the curators are increasingly knowing and turning to the public to cost their ‘art’. Most curators are public artists to themselves, at increasing cost. Public artists are artists attracting public curators at the public’s cost, increasingly.
Artists and curators, knowing that their careers depend on attracting attention to themselves at almost any cost, are increasingly turning to visual gags, titilation, public scandal or platitudinous commentaries on newsworthy social issues, under the pretence of challenging public perceptions.
Knowing that their artists are increasingly themselves, curators are attracting the knowing public to their visual pretence. The curators are turning the public on to the pretence of perceptions. The knowing artists are challenging the pretence of the public themselves.
The curators, platitudinous in themselves, and turning under titilation, are under the pretence that their careers, that depend on artists, are challenging to the public. Their perceptions of themselves, the curators, are increasingly turning any artists to knowing themselves, almost.
Knowing themselves, artists, are attracting the perceptions that, at any cost, their issues are issues of visual pretence. The public, knowing that, are themselves turning to careers of commentaries on public issues of visual attention and are platitudinous to artists.
On and under artists, curators are themselves under the pretence that the public are almost of knowing perception. Under the curators, artists, attracting titilation at cost, are knowing of the platitudinous public and their attention to scandal, titilation and pretence.
To find yourself, stop looking. If you really want to see the would for the should, turn on the telly. TV wants to think that it is our eyes and ears, and rightfully so. Using our own eyes is akin to using our own minds. To turn me on, turn on the box. Nothing gets me going like something. If you are in the practice of taking the blinkers off, you'll know that not much is a lot. The measure of a mind is a ruler. Rulers are just so many empty trousers. For the information of the knowledgeable, I'm ruled by my thumbs. Opposable all the way. It's a delicate balancing hack to get through the thick stuff of our bank yards. The TV, as I've oft remarked to it, is just so much the head that sinks on our own shoulders. Nothing is as real as anything. The TV, I don't mind mentioning, is a televison. It's profound and enlightening to add at this point that TV, telly and television: same thing, different letters. All these words suggest different internal attitudes, I'm sure you know. Watch out for how much affection I have for my own affectation. It's nearer to remote than control. If you monitor this closely, you'll know: potatoes.
I’m interested in aspiring to do things that interest me. My interests, that can be loosely described, are a mixture of gravity and levity. I float like a bee and stink like a butterfly. My aim is to eradicate lofty sermons from the mountebanks. By slowly pulling the rug from under their hats, I hope to reveal the emperors’ nude clothes. Roughly put, my hope is to have a long fruitful career in the orchard, where I can have as much fun as one can have with two pencils up one’s nostrils. Pathetically, I am interested in how potatoes get mashed. Words, comprised of dumb little characters, are an endless sauce. Of tomato and tomato, I say potato. Driven by my desire to have a nice rug myself, I hope to strip down the barriers between the ‘public’ and the ‘artist’ to demonstrate that wheels are as normal to a normal human as breathing normal polluted air is: normal. Basically, I believe that pencil-sharpeners should manifest themselves in every corner of a person. Square as I am, and dedicated deeply to the study of confectionery, I have many corners (four to be exact). Drawing heavily from contemporary culture, my work is deeply rooted. In the past, I have shown myself to be capable of circling the square of myself. Round and round we go. Grounded in my philosophy of paying close attention to the formguide, my undertakings have often proved fateful. My study has revealed to me, without question, all the answers. Everything is nothing without nothing. I wanted to make one more sentence where I put the word “I” in it. That was it. Everything and nothing, I'm sure I've already said: opposite.
There is no point asking me to be perfectly blunt. I'm as sharp as a bucketful of buckets. Twice as full of it and half as smart. Simply said, a fish out of water is a flounderer. Now, I'm not one to jump up and down with my hand up your skirt because I was raised right. Hands go best upskirt. In this trade that many of us find ourselves in, there are many tools to choose from. The hand that screws itself is always a little nuts. If I was one to go down without a fight while whistling my own braises, I'd probably proclaim myself as a righter of less than sinister proportions. Some things, this post included, have gotten right out of hand. My misses count as more than my hits. I'd never bash a girl. Unprovoked, I've been known to fly right off the shallow end. There's nothing profound about the shallows. Fortunate for me is it that I am just as blunt as a pocketful of razor blades. Happy as am I to see you, I won't be putting my hand in my pocket. A hand in the pocket is worth two in the bush. It's just a forked that sharp and blunt, in a roundabout way, at the best of times, any old day of the wank: opposite.
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