klimt was a fucktard.

golden rivulets drop sidearms in these disgustingly relevant paint strokes. pain strikes yet again, covered in gold leaf for the frame - what is it to sit and look, to play this dangerous game ? rainsford would see it so, allow himself to be hunted and wanton. there is a secret lust in all meaty, all dipped in fragile precious metals like some trophy i could never win. running in fear is running for the sport. you don’t like sports so you play me like some instrument you’re not very good at. good on you to be good at me, good sir. today would be a good day, toward me if you could fall fast enough on craggy streams rapidly filling with a liquid we can’t pronounce yet. yet to change forms. klimt never formed clay (that i know of) he’d rather have trophy wives. and while streams turn into brooks they’ll hide themselves, like capillaries behind veins, to control these petrified water systems quietly and cautiously, like any good sir would do, or could, if he so wanted is he wanton ? like the golden meat that so badly wants to be hunted by the rifle of the zaroffs of the world, yet hides in the cracked wooden floors in your room. richard connell on a heroin slump. after some mediocre head he’d sit down and imagine the poor meat gunned down for the more fortunate’s sport; practice. the goodest sir always has a choice and he’s never running. neither does he hold the rifle. he’s not rainsford and neither are you, good sir. you’re not zaroff and neither is he. we’re not meat but klimt wants us to be. so he doesn’t have to work with clay, there doesn’t seem to be a need. no wading in streams with a dramatic task, no mucking up trouser cuffs with the very stuff needed to sculpt a sculpt - why do what is not needed ? when you can just tack meat on a canvas so it envelops itself. when you can paint something and call it iconic. so nice we might even cover it in gold. call it love, romance, passion, everything. emblems of what will never be, a memorialized catheter through the vein to siphon “could.” a rifle fires in the distance. rainsford is dead. a painting gets famous. streams turn intro brooks turn into your wood floors. trophy heads poke through the cracks in daunting splinters. zaroff gets knifed in flushing. klimt dies a fucktard.

 @utilitiesnotincluded