Later Sailor (thoughts I’ve found on index cards)

Later, Sailor; mixed media on board, 24 x 24 inches. The string series continues.

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Later Sailor (thoughts I’ve found on index cards)

Mummsia: eating flowers to get high. You’re sure that was it. You’re sure. Why can’t you find the word then? / Not in this office. The industrial psychopaths are on full automatic, bringing in consultants by the truckload. They colour-code everything. / Running through the forest at night, the depths of bending blackness. Stop? I’ll never stop. / His roommates were useless when it came to feng-shui; all they did was lie around, their decomposing bodies stinking up the place. / His uncle would talk to Mike the Rat, complain constantly about mysterious odours. / Destroyed in the middle of the street, this big black bird smashed down, smeared along like it had been dragged to death by lightning. / At the horse races, I sit behind the old guy with the oxygen tank and think about luck. / Spin the wheel ... are you nice or not nice? Here’s a cookie for being nice. What? Well, I’ll just take it back then. / Halfway up the stairs he hears a gunshot. / If we work together we can drag him down with us. To the hot place. / First, I’m gonna get that nurse. Then the doctor. Then the guy who bathes me. Then the old guy in the bed behind the curtain – he’ll thank me for it. Comas are so stupid. / People have no knowledge of themselves anymore, how they inconvenience others. / Two English officers have a very polite discussion on the design of an approaching tank, just before it blows them up. / Bad weather discounts only go so far. / Why are foxes considered so smart? The only ones I ever see are dead. / When the soldiers come, I run for the forest. Not so fast little one, says the soldier who sweeps me up in his arm. Where are you running to? I don’t say anything. Another soldier has a radio on his back. Just shoot him, he says. Uh uh, says the soldier who has me, and cocks his head at the American journalist with his camera. The soldier with the radio rubs my hair and whispers in my ear, Don’t worry, we’ll be back to get you tomorrow. / A little Chinese girl in a bright blue dress, her long black hair tied tight in a ponytail with an enormous pink bow, riding a purple bike with training wheels and a pink plastic basket and pink plastic pom-poms on the end of each handle and she laughs at you as she goes by, laughing like you’re ridiculous. / Who is the patron saint of fools? / All those paintings you gave away to girls are swimming their way through landfills. / Later, sailor.


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