Report Blog Entry
Art work is knowing the space between art and work can be a nice thing.
Intelligence is knowing that you can forget all of your past.
Art work is, at its core, a way of coping.
Intelligence is knowing that coping is a waste of time.
Art work is turning apparent brain formant into something when it was nothing.
Intelligence is not knowing what that means.
Art work is entering yourself.
Intelligence is dismissing yourself.
Art work is fantasy, like Santa Claus’ lap, or believing a sentence can be written pretty in English.
Intelligence is finding out why.
I don’t mind life. It’s just the fact that it ends that causes me all these issues in the first place.
Artwork is not ending the writing at 12 lines.
Intelligence is stopping because I have a headache and my back hurts.
Comments
Displaying 1 of 1 comments ( View all | Add Comment )
Racc
Artwork is staying up for the whole night. It’s a performance art, it’s a play, it’s a tragedy.
Intelligence is, wait, grey matter volume. Wait. Wait.
Did you read the poem I wrote about the cows with brains made of butter?
Stupid idiot cows who know nothing. The field was bright and cartoonishly sunny and suffocating, like a Chinese slot machine app. The grass was like Easter basket fake grass, and was sweet like candy and crunchy like a dry glazed donut. The field was overwhelmingly sappy and sugary and high fructose. It was on a steep incline. The cows had butter brains that could catch bullets like a baseball mitt. The cows did not mind their death, and the receipt of the bullet into the butter cheeks of the frontal lobe, when they parted like curtains to receive the round… the receipt was soft, squishy, like mashed potatoes. In the field there was a dark shed. NOBODY KNEW WHAT WENT ON IN THE DARK BARN SHED. Inside the shed there was hay scattered everywhere and it was extremely dark, contrasting to the bright outside. Some light leaked in through holes. Like two holes maybe. There was a metal wire fence in the cramped tiny shed. One cow could fit in at a time with the farmer man. Maybe there was a horse that was always there behind the wire fence or something. The farmer man would bloat the cow and prolapse it’s stomach. It would stab the inflated gut with a box cutter so that beige paste would spurt out like those Mexican push candies. The cow would have a caked, rippled anus that could be spread. The farmer man would use a blood letter to staple and scrape at the blooming, fat, expunged anal tissue from the dumb butter cow, and could dig around, with his whole arm, into the shitty cavity, and reach blindly for something hard amidst the muck. Like when you step barefoot into the marsh water and touch a crawdad with your toe. NOBODY KNEW WHAT WENT ON IN THE SHED. The cows remained dumb in their plane.
by Racc; ; Report
Did you read the poem I wrote about the cows with brains made of butter? Stupid idiot cows who know nothing. The field was bright and cartoonishly sunny and suffocating, like a Chinese slot machine app. The grass was akin to synthetic Easter basket filler, saccharine to the taste, yet brittle as a dry, glazed doughnut. The field was cloyingly sentimental and sugary, saturated with high fructose. It lay upon a treacherous incline, equipped with its own orbit, like Mario galaxy or that one early 2000s 3d animation movie about the dragon hunters that I saw as a kid. The kine possessed cerebral matter as adhesive as a catcher's mitt, able to ensnare bullets with ease. The cows were unconcerned with their demise and the bullet's impact on their pliant frontal lobes, which parted as drapery in receipt of projectile. Like buttery buttcheek brains. The sensation was gentle, yielding, like lukewarm mashed potatoes.
In the field there was a dark shed. NOBODY KNEW WHAT WENT ON IN THE DARK BARN SHED. The interior was shaded, in stark contrast to the luminous outdoors, with only a faint glimmer filtering through one or two holes. The confined space held a rusted metal wire fence, through which only one kine and the farmer could pass at a time, with perhaps a horse or other creature lurking behind the barrier. The farmer would overfeed the kine, causing its stomach to swell and prolapse. The engorged gut would then be slashed open with a box cutter, like a swift paper cut with a delay, causing beige paste to gush, spray, and spew, like those Mexican push candies. The kine's anus would be knotty, tangled, and corrugated, ripe for the taking. Yeah, cow with caked, rippled hole that could be spread. Spread of Obj is pos. The farmer would use a bloodied lancet to staple and scrape at the burgeoning, fatty, extruded anal tissue of the obtuse bovine. He would delve within the feculent cavity, blindly groping for something solid, like unto the sensation of a barefoot step in mire encountering a vapid crawdaddy. The barn's machinations were really a cursed thing in a frequently permagnostic world, NOBODY KNEW WHAT WENT ON IN THE SHED. The cows remained dumb in their plane.
Have you contemplated the possibility of the farmer's use of plasticine straws embedded in the shunt at his heel, and the manner in which he catches drippings of the cows' leaking stomach acids?
Cows, you see, possess a four-chambered stomach… stomach… stomachy… tummy… that relies on bacteria to break down tough plant material. One of these chambers, the rumen, hosts a diverse microbial community that produces a range of volatile fatty acids (VFAs), including acetic acid, propionic acid, and butyric acid. These VFAs are absorbed into the bloodstream of the cow and play a crucial role in the cow's metabolism.
The farmer is using these VFAs in a cunning and devilish way to enhance the sweetness of the grass and affect the cows' brains. The butyric acid, in particular, has been shown to stimulate insulin secretion and increase glucose uptake in the brain, leading to improved cognitive function in animals. Butyrate (not to be confused with Booty Rate, the marker for the treasure score cows get in the field plane) has also been shown to increase the expression of genes involved in glucose metabolism and energy production in brain cells.
farmerMan is extracting the stomach acid from the cows in the shed. Loop function at work.
by Racc; ; Report