High and low

An artist life is uncanny and bittersweet.

As we paint and dress biblically and upset.

A masterpiece has shown to me and I dance convulsively. And I twitch and shake.

I ride laps and thrust my pelvis and I write to Priscilla and thank Elvis, Muddy, John and The Stones. Sir Paul, Ringo, John, The Who, Tina Turner, Cher, Little Richard, The beach boys too And the deviants you know. I can sing a song Of glory dedicated to the poets, you know, 

The jab, jaber, jamilla, osi whom I'm not

For you to scold. Like the current of water that flows. My writing is witty and ever so bold and free. I don't have to count on fingers to get to a melody. AND I FEEL LIKE A PAGE IN THE GOSPEL. AND I FEEL LIKE A HOLY WORK MYSELF. AND I FEEL LIKE A GOD ON A THRONE AND I FEEL VAIN. 

Perhaps, it's truly

Rock &Roll. Hip-hop, punk, electro, soul synth

I'm not behaving. I'm not your foolish bitch.

Funk and soul, rhythm and blues is where we trace ourselves all back to. Country, blue grass is soil sun and mud. I wear a blouse made of spotted silk and everything spit up of the same. I weave silk like tradespeople in vain. I wear silk like tradespeople and model in vain. I feel it in my veins perhaps I can produce. Perhaps, direct but who would I abuse. And I feel home it's so wonderful.

You think you know me but I don't suffer fools. Amen. Whatever to you.