Try to meditate to calm yourself and get concentrated.
And if you can't do it, you silly thing,
apply what I write in the following brackets:

(10 minutes before reading at least a quarter pint of wine)

 

 

Artistry as well as the whole rest of the phenomena that belong to it, through which we 

perceive, judge and name what exists – is nothing.

This is emptiness.

Emptiness is the creator of the truth that begs for understanding that you are the only

jewel for yourself, which plays in the smile of the universe's infinity.

 

Your universe that is created on the piquancy, but not on the one of your

daily bread, belongs to the muses' universe.

As the jewel is the most precious trinket of the muse's heart, it is the crown for her in 

form of a muzzle that falls onto her neck.

 

 

As the artist feels that the ordinary muse
is not a right woman for him, he adores the most popular
hookers from outside the railway station, and also these shy ones
with the rosaries in their hands, which wink at him.

 

He knows that the women who were born to be model samples of commonness  do not                 

stimulate in him this desire, which, tempting, drives mad at first the heart and then the

brain.

This temptation, which has in itself the innocence of the smallest hummingbird baby

or is the riddle of indifference in the hangman's eyes, is the only power able to bring

forth the artist love.

As the creator's subconsciousness is playful and wiser than consciousness, it orders

to adore the opposite of this pair's caprices: the heart and the brain.

The cunning artist obeys subconsciousness  in every matter for he trusted it

when it confided to him its secret: what the hangman indwelling his artistry longs for

as he looks at the hummingbird baby.

Contempt is the shield of temptation because love is always accustomed to lie in wait

by contempt somewhere there.

Shout to me the name of the creator who loved, did not scorn and  was not

despised by love!

How much sweetness for the innocence of the hangman's look is there in the indifference

of the hummingbird baby's eyes, isn't there?

 

Hold on. What is this?

To my astonishment,  I sense THE LADIES also wish to be  creators!

I don't comprehend!?

How can anything else except life be born from the eternal female suffering!?

Childish adventure, that's his world!

Being always a disobedient disciple of the nature, ingenuity has in itself

this pertness that challenges the nature.

This swaggering ingenuity was given to him, not to her!

I have met a few female artists in my life, but their only creative work was the encoded

goal of their perfect subconsciousness..

Pregnancy!

I love female artists for this advantage
that as they are  as stubborn as a mule,
they are never angry.

 

Female artists, female artists ...

These plagues have infested everywhere recently.

It was the nature, which was not itself for people any more, who brought them forth

unnoticeably.

What should  the artist  look for here?

I'll sing shouting:

Let's party my soul, let's party my health!

Nobody will recall except you, when you learn that the life has gone.

Will grief arise?

Having tasted everything, youth is the life's contentment.

May youth last forever!

 

Were you not ashamed at least once
during the confirmation ritual?
When you prayed for the babe's ass in
the moments of being yourself?

 

 
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