A paint

It's so beautiful and precise,
I could have an attack of beauty shock disease.
It's all just a goddamn meticulously documented painting.
I can't write like this.
I trained to be a painter
But that's why I don't give a shit about color.

It's because your passion is to compete.
You always only want to dominate.
And so you're always worse than any naive simpleton.
Of course, you don't care about the whole palette of the world.
But they really like the flowers in the flowerbed.
The scalpel in your gaze will keep you from getting their floral ecstasy.

Ouija I won't post such confessions anywhere.
That's for the priest's confessional.
Yes, you will,
because this nonsense is irrelevant.
It's just trash wind in your head.
Add color.
Turquoise!
No, it has to be an object.
No. I just want turquoise.

Eat a tube of paint then--
You're not really an artist,
And that's why you're not a poet
I'll turn turquoise in a circle I don't need titles.
Take solace in that,
cause you're always the worst at everything.

Mr. Whiskey? Did all my imaginary friends decide to insult me today?
Does anyone else have anything to say?
Terra, you?
Then I guess I'll do it.
Turquoise.
My turn is the orbit of a planet.
Are there always weapons in both my hands?
That's not true,
You just don't recognize the color.

Mr. Whiskey, that's another weird text,
but I've been taking notes after you.
You're an avant-garde artist, I see,
All avant-garde is rearguard, nowadays.
This carousel of horses goes both ways.

Can you sit on a horse backwards?
I used to be able to.
So turquoise? Anybody mind?
Amber?
No, amber's too sweet. I don't like sweet.
I want pure turquoise tonight.

Translated with DeepL.com (free version)