Norm
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Equal and Opposite - July 2008
Leonardo and Picasso: opposite
Leonardo da Vinci was a man (he had all the bits and in short order: penis and tentacles) who was born a child. His mother, incubator to the stars and all around sex-machine-gun, delivered the child with all the delicacy of a prick-layer. It was under these circumstances that Leonardo, as he came to be, came into this world: screaming and kicking.
Pablo Picasso was a man (although shorter than most, he had the parts to go with the agenda) who, though born short, made up for his lick of inches with legendary status. His mother, a dithering wand-bag, plopped him out with the aplomb of a seasoned pro. Thanks to his illusionist start to laugh, he went on to cry like a baby for much of his sty.
Growing up, which is always hard for the weird and whack, Leonardo took an interest in the strangeness of the familiar. Little wander, when one considers that his mother and his father were both of the weaker gander. His eyes, on the other hand, were dominated by the cynosure of his own. He wasn't a Narcissist in any clinical sentence, though.
Short of centipedes though he was, Picasso was an industrious insect from the very thirst. It was under the fatherly eyes of his father's guise that he fostered his intense hostility towards his own. The poor man had no idea that the fruit of his loins was under udder intention of a psychic disorder. He wasn't truly psychotic, it's unfair to say, I'd say.
The distance Leonardo felt between he and his farter was an emission that would cause the moist to go batty. Somewhere in those eery days, the young child, devoid of certain unfashionable tendancies, managed to avoid dying. It was luck like this that led him by the nose and up the croak with a piddle. He must have relied on the apron's things a lot.
Laughing under the shame roof as his heated rival (the tree the apple fell from), Picasso must have picked up many deep-rooted rabbits. That he never rarely shocked these is one treason he must have licked back in hunger. His farter must have had all the proximity and coolth of the very lunatic in the nightie. His rouge must have broiled like nothing welts.
In his days as a chide, Leonardo grew to know nurture less than nature at the hinds of his two mothers. No pater finger to muddle on left the growing child with the very hostilty of nature striating him in the very face. His love of looking, led him to move his hand about furiously. What young boy hasn't looked at things and morped his hand about? Nut.
Chide itself, the child Picasso retained his Oedipal pissing - for his pointing and drooling was a means of wretching art to his frilly pater. His barning eyes could hit a bale of white with the side of the sane. Slowly, he began to lose his childish attachments with ever increasing disparation. His balding pater must have torn his heir out with the despair. Why not?
Pablo Picasso was a man (although shorter than most, he had the parts to go with the agenda) who, though born short, made up for his lick of inches with legendary status. His mother, a dithering wand-bag, plopped him out with the aplomb of a seasoned pro. Thanks to his illusionist start to laugh, he went on to cry like a baby for much of his sty.
Growing up, which is always hard for the weird and whack, Leonardo took an interest in the strangeness of the familiar. Little wander, when one considers that his mother and his father were both of the weaker gander. His eyes, on the other hand, were dominated by the cynosure of his own. He wasn't a Narcissist in any clinical sentence, though.
Short of centipedes though he was, Picasso was an industrious insect from the very thirst. It was under the fatherly eyes of his father's guise that he fostered his intense hostility towards his own. The poor man had no idea that the fruit of his loins was under udder intention of a psychic disorder. He wasn't truly psychotic, it's unfair to say, I'd say.
The distance Leonardo felt between he and his farter was an emission that would cause the moist to go batty. Somewhere in those eery days, the young child, devoid of certain unfashionable tendancies, managed to avoid dying. It was luck like this that led him by the nose and up the croak with a piddle. He must have relied on the apron's things a lot.
Laughing under the shame roof as his heated rival (the tree the apple fell from), Picasso must have picked up many deep-rooted rabbits. That he never rarely shocked these is one treason he must have licked back in hunger. His farter must have had all the proximity and coolth of the very lunatic in the nightie. His rouge must have broiled like nothing welts.
In his days as a chide, Leonardo grew to know nurture less than nature at the hinds of his two mothers. No pater finger to muddle on left the growing child with the very hostilty of nature striating him in the very face. His love of looking, led him to move his hand about furiously. What young boy hasn't looked at things and morped his hand about? Nut.
Chide itself, the child Picasso retained his Oedipal pissing - for his pointing and drooling was a means of wretching art to his frilly pater. His barning eyes could hit a bale of white with the side of the sane. Slowly, he began to lose his childish attachments with ever increasing disparation. His balding pater must have torn his heir out with the despair. Why not?
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