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"If you had to paint the gutter, which color would you choose?" Said the patron to the painter, the painter said, "The blues" "Do you act off intuition or languish and peruse?" "More like tap into tradition from the angle of my mood" He looked back at his canvas while strangling a tube A master of the palette, all sanguine and cool The music mostly jazz, the jazz mostly old Punctured by some punk and some old smoky soul An atlas on the trunk from the land of broken goals Just a cover and a back that you open and you close "Where are all the pages?" The paintеr said “Defanged I ripped 'еm all out and made some paper planes Fish grease absorbers and some origami cranes” Poured hisself a drink and then poured it down the drain Looked at the empty canvas, said "I think I have a name I'll call it 'Gasoline Pouring on the Flames,'" hah, hah "I appreciate the visit, this isn't normally allowed" "Do you consider yourself wild or conforming to a style?" The patron pointed at a pile, "Are those rejections or mistakes?" The painter said, "That is not for question or debate Most of what we know as art is the projection of a faith A product of a Pontiff for the election of a saint A gift from the read for the digestion of the can't A visual garnish for the confessions of the frank Displays of physical carnage make connections to the ranks Letras de cancionesGoes over very well with South Americans and Yanks Not to sound shamanistic but there's medicine in paint It gets kinetic if you let it, there's a fetish in its strength Martyrdom will call, Russian roulette is in the flanks And most would pull the trigger if the weapon's full of blanks But when there's a pool of sharks and you step into the tank That's the pool of art that got 'em headed to the plank But they fell for the deceptiveness of the secularist's complaint The upheaval of the cathedral into the edifice of bank That pile over there is just the evidence of angst The failed revival of a perfectionist when his efforts have just sank A selection of the waste that lacks direction or a base You lose all of the plots for the affections of a race Man does not become superior 'cause you connect him to a cape Nor does become inferior because you connect him to a ape I never wanted my life to be a collection of some dates And holiday my days away and intellectually sedate It's not really a beef but conceptually it's steak Like do genitals and gender roles successfully conflate? The current art world is just competitively opaque It never ceases to amaze, my mouth is medically agape One day its raising up the brand, the next it's shredding it to flakes And the velocity of trends is what referees the pace Professionally accept what ethically I hate So in all of my work, you see this wrestling with fate Deceiving in the brushstrokes how aggressively I strafe Less like putting on some makeup, more like severing a face" "Wow," said the patron with a smile "That's the most interesting diatribe I've heard in a while How you articulated the nature and put it all on trial Took it up to Heaven, then put it on the ground" The painter asked the patron, "Can you stand up on the pile? I've had a flash of inspiration, my creativeness aroused" The model took its place, the painter grabbed a lighter Doused the shit in gasoline and set it all on fire We got through the hearts of stone And the scars for bones When your heart's unknown In the arc of Joan, yeah From Letras Mania