a trash can for the refuse of the conscious mind
Wolfgang in Old High german means, "wolf-strife." Ben, an advocate for artistic normalcy is in fact a wolf. This so called Vicar is Ecce Homo turned around to face his/her gasping audience. Dietch can shampoo my crotch. All the jock straps, speed, gender bending and silk ties cant even come close to this painting. An eye of a moon past crescent. Just like us. Fuck wielding the sword and toting the pistol. Ben, who takes work beyond false humility and high hopes, has gifted us, the grand possum posse, with the most troubled of sweets. I dare any of you to take a bit and walk a mile. I have. Kiss our rings.
Ghost of myself? Ha! I've been in the company of the artist when he was most vulnerable. By that I mean his most comfortable. By that I mean his chemistry was balancing the chemistry of the motor heads around him. I wasn't impressed. I was relieved.
I've settled. But always what remains is the fever of biology. So, I'm digesting. Still I howl. I howl at Ben and his facility crossed with a smoky search for yet another subject. He's honest. Like a Southerner. Showed me a study and I felt fucking good way down inside. I've never seen his hands at work but I know that they are lined with broken formality. BEN!
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