One of my favourite paintings I left in Samoa after our Tapa ApArt Exhibition... Many Rivers to Cross.
This prompted a whole new way of thinking... What would the critics say hehe...
A gob not stopping. Another tongue will be needed to lick this off the fan. I'm not sure if this is loud enough, here, use my massive phone a friend...
Sauce so sweet, you'll need a funnel to extract its cane, and a scraper to get every last morsel. Such goodness, you'll be finger licking your way into the pea pod...
A slurpy little number, wedged into a curved bottle and merging into smoke. Billoughing out of the vent faster than the train conductors egg sandwich...
Smooth, sent me into another world, turned my face inside out and split me sides. A heart palpertation, swinging the Golden Gate Bridge over the edge...
Surrounded all in a plankton blanket, impressing the Sea God out of retirement and through the murky port hole...
A tantalising trance across the tongue, hypnotising the taste buds, knocking down their picket signs with a lazor pen, knocking old witt face off their effn perch...
Preempting extinction with an evolving knows. Turning the dial on ear and screaming to the eye doctor, in your face...
A free bird, pole dancing off the side of the stage. Painting by fkn numbers, going around the outside of every tip top trailor park caravan in the ice scream car park...
That the rain would spit if it dared. Somewhere between cyclone deviation and lyrical lie back and think of England...
A kind of erotic alphabet, licking the jus from the plate. A drizzle here, a drizzle there, a few dots, a sprig of fern and a star shaped cookie...
Calling the genie out of time with a mere stroke of ego everywhere with a six foot coat stand. Hugging the smile off your face and tying its own laces...
So filmy, it makes superman widen his grip. So flimsy, it cracks every pane in the glass house. So chunky, it pours itself on the rocks...
Ahead of its game, it melts the inside of your mouth. So delerious, it imagines its own reality. So fkn cool, it freezes your eyeballs out of their sockets and into the tray...
Erratically and beautifully twisted, it turns Daisy over in her soil, with a flick of radiance, she pushes...
A godammed rebellion, taking your steam to Old Faithful and slurping quicker than you can say, suck me tender...
A sushi roll, bought from the market and swivelled into line faster than you can draw your sword. Oink Oink...
Sentimental screeches from the wall as the car lifts up its tyres. So greasy, it'll slide itself down the pole, and urgently...
An inner tube patched and inflated with ver juice and honey, stolen from Winnie the Phews hidden basement in the woods...
A jumping Jack from in the pan, sizzle me up with a splat of fat, heated to within an inch of its crispy, goodness me...
How was my trip? Fkn Great, like a punch in the face, inflicted by your own fist, and a kick up the arse from your own, you guessed it...
Another biscuit, swimming in the coffee, saturated and bloated like a transparent beat box. So gifted, it'll wrap its own present from the secret Santa stash in the wall...
Seeing itself written in paint, freaking out with the specials board, fresher than a post it note, sticking itself on the inside of your cheek...
Wow the show was amazing. What did the critics write? Whats a critic anyway? If I wrote about art, if I wrote about your art, I'd write something like this...
This prompted a whole new way of writing for me. Having been accepted into a New York Gallery twice, I opted to go there on holiday instead and exhibit myself... or simply put, to have some fun. K