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Art for art’s sake, please.

So again I speak for myself, and on behalf of my practices… the art of what? is not exactly essentially known to any one particular individual, is the twist always something stronger than that which presses us into line in the first place… a creepy synchronicity feeling its way through the tense atmosphere of the pulsating real not aware of the chilling skill with which it all moves into place begging the question of existing at all… mirrored by differences so similar to each thing as itself… bandwidths and wavelengths, parallels and perpendiculars, waves and particles… one and the same begging for understanding, to be understood, and always by the other ones like itself asking the same question in offset timing structures… creating a particular harmony through dissonant details splashing without the idea of direction… ringing to drive out the demons, thrilling beneath the skin, and syndicated throughout the perilous world of sticks and stones and broken bones… the pools of blood feed the plant life, and our own thoughts plunge further through space, splashing against the page… like everyone else craves the strange to break themselves away from stage of the eventual existence… including the brave, it takes them in waves, by the dozens to make it swirl together in violent colors before it fades… where is the canvas? the backdrop plays, the crowd softly whispers to themselves, the elements align as the room darkens slightly… without a doubt, the fierce and untrained mind has seen a light, and it lights up bright tropical skies… rough passages from one moment to the next as the voices ring through our heads… thought a lot about nothing and inane actions in the week of “bliss” and blistered lips, what topical solutions we find Here, but is it left for an untrained eye like me? dropping the pocket and the balls for all to see, and panic of wet floor gripped me straight, from worn off pain to riding planes… the nothing I thought about was the nothing accomplished, a regained essence of life as the tourist eyes replaced my own, and the windows watched reached stumbling in to teach… a guide through penetration, first days end quick, and then the sober sick brain inhales escape… the new patterns of another powerful culture has settled into vision, assimilated transfiguration and transformations through sun and shore, and ocean floors explored giant cruise ships leaned… the gift of flesh, my mind as the fly, and lurid maggot lying there stares long and hard at bodies unaware… nothing really new just many other points of view to spew upon the lessons learned of, though I still don’t know what was the end result of all that drinking religiously, except for that ‘serial biting’ incident… the rhyming is the reason that all this comes together with craters and wedges, the cheeses from the buffets, and all-inclusive jargon thrown astray… the six of us, as we all seemed to travel in a pack, toured the fairest island close of all… the classic trust of the familiar rusts and withers as it stays just arm’s length out of distance… out of focus in the hocus-pocus rhetoric, seasickness and Spanish language abound, and then the usual tricks again swirl around… what souvenirs are left us besides our stories witnessed, and the gifts we have kept with us, but something other than the decadent positions… of surface glimmers like the tans, the burns, the blistered exceptions that shimmer as we see them in our mind’s eye projected… what forgives us these qualities?