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Array
(
[sid] => 1845
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => They Had Me Pawn My Birthday Suit
[time] => 2002-08-06 13:31:31
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Harrison Ford told me that
I belong in a museum. I figured in the after hours I could fix the Mona Lisa. "You are an ancient piece of living artwork," he said to me. I loved his fedora. "Art," I had to tell him, "is only the pornography of one's imagination." I think he may have taken offence because he couldn't save me from the screeching-leper-nazi-clowns until the very last second. Or is that how it always comes out in the end? "Hey," I said, "Yeah, I uh, think that by oh, well, being HUNG up here like this, I've sort of, lost my original flavour." I waited for a response; in the dark; I didn't get one. I didn't get one until I realized that Vincent's self-portrait was only a painting, and that when paintings speak, they're usually inaudible. I puckered my lips and nodded slowly. "That's very attractive you know." "What's that?" I asked. "That hacking before letting the saliva flow," he continued, "The chicks really dig that." "Oh," I replied, "kind of like a severed ear right?" "Yes, exactly!" he said, "You know I'll have to try that!" "Oh my," I replied, "Je plaisante mon ami!" "Ah," he stated, "tu parle Français!" "Mais non," I responded, "Je plaisante ici aussi." For weeks I was surrounded by death in exhibition. I'd seen art pukes come and art pukes go. "Synthetic, yet organic," they'd say, "Pathetic, yet surreal, but erh, I've seen greater representations of society than this. Let us move on," continuing, "Ah, look at this over here..." Synthetic pathetic indeed. I'd set up my 'back in five minutes', "Mademoiselle, j'ai une cigarette." Eventually they gave me my own rope. I was happy then because I could sleep nude without the worry of being stolen. I'd invite my friends over and we'd get drunk, and we'd drink from the bullet hole in van Gogh's stomach. It was a great year for wine eighteen ninety. Alas my value decreased with age and I died a starving artist. It was then that the art pukes paid large sums for my rotting body. "Now this is art," one said, "Do you think it should hang above the fireplace, or in the master guest room?" [comments] => 2 [counter] => 225 [topic] => 31 [informant] => Adam_Gaucher [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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