High above the stinking poverty line
And waist below the sickening exorbitantly rich
Exists layers of mediocrity
Wrapped in levels of narcissism
Add up all possible permutations and combinations of the mediocrity layers and narcissism levels
And you get the whole of the shit-stained public lavatory that calls itself, the middle class
Every fuck-up needs a distraction
A mirage in the endless desert of a life
Deep down you know it's not real let alone be worthy
But then aren't we all empty crab shells pretending to be wholesome meals
Trying hard to forget our day jobs being skeletons in coffins in graveyards that smell of coffee, bullshit, and decayed dreams
In between measured lifespans wasted between complete sobriety and the utter lack of it
That's why the middle-class invented art
A privilege for the poor, a pastime for the rich, and a bucket load of false hopes for the ones existing in the in-betweens
Art is no rebellion, art is no revolution
Art is a disease; acute schizophrenia of a momentary greatness
Art exists at the tombstone of aspirations, at the morgue of truth
Art exists because you need a false sense of purpose in your otherwise mediocre existence
Art exists because you need a made up meaning to your rather meaningless being
Trapped in between the war to survive life and the luxury to auction it
You are no artist for art is illusion
You are a gaslighting escapist at best
