Tier 15 Oil on Board 10 inches by 15 inches 2011
About
I want
I want the maker of pigments.
I want the teller of stories.
I want the bank teller.
I want the grocery clerk and his price gun.
I want the wives.
I want the daughters.
I want the wives want for her daughters desires.
I want the small patch of dying grass.
I want want.
I want need.
I want desire.
I want the the old man walking an even older dog.
I want Albert, the Spanish kid who works at the art supply store.
I want this poem.
I want the man who invented urinal pucks.
I want the dead cat on the side of the road that nobody misses.
I want the child star.
I want the most dangerous nigger in prison.
I want my mommy.
I want the second chances.
I want the beach front properties.
I want the stretcher of canvases.
I want the failed artists.
I want the maker of documentaries.
I want every woman I ever fucked.
I want every woman Iʼm going to fuck.
I want the guy who invented the word fuck.
I want fuck.
I want the machine that made this pen.
I want my grade 2 teacher.
I want last nights leftovers.
I want the environmentalist.
I want the socialists.
I want the buddhists.
I want Quentin Tarantino.
I want the winning numbers.
I want the next soldier killed.
I want the president.
I want the pope.
I want the piece of dog shit that nobody will pick up outside my front door.
I want the hamster I killed back in ʻ92.
I want the famous painting of the x rated picnic.
I want the man who my father wrote love letters to.
I want the boy who I testified against in court.
I want plastic.
I want synthetic.
I want everything that wonʼt go away.
I want the guy who dressed like a woman to escape the sinking ship.
I want the ice burg.
I want the beat that the penguins march to.
I want the comforting sound of keys jingling outside the door.
I want fact.
I want fiction.
I want the convicted pedophiles.
I want the pedophiles not yet convicted.
I want the academy.
I want the red carpet.
I want the phone the second before it starts ringing.
I want bad news.
I want bad taste.
I want the over educated.
I want the over worked and underpaid.
I want the draft dodger.
I want the African kid wearing a Motley Crew t shirt.
I want the burning bush.
I want the slut on her most sluttiest day.
I want the guy I was born beside who beat me up when we were 12 , who 15 years after
that blew his brains out all over his parents living room.
I want the brother I talk to.
I want the brother I donʼt talk to.
I want the N1 H1 virus.
I want the maker of tombstones.
I want the digger of graves.
I want the mourning mother.
I want anyone dressed in black.
I want the words of the dumb men, the scars of the maimed men, the limp of the lame
men and the insight of the blind men.
I want 12 inches.
I want the whore who stole my cologne.
I want the girl whoʼs never had a flower in her hair.
I want the moment when I realized every woman has had a cock in her mouth.
I want the only friend I have who has ever read War and Peace.
I want the man who said that artists died off with swash buckling.
I want the teenage awkward phase.
I want the machine that measures pain on a sliding scale.
I want the woman who sees the man inside the child.
I want the smell of bacon cooking while I listen to my girlfriend laughing on the phone
with her sister.
I want the moment before on and off collide.
I want the white person with the cottage.
I want the white person with 2 cars, 2 kids, 2 dogs, 2 ex wives with the cottage.
I want Bono.
I want The Edge.
I want the round girls who visit my studio and reach back with both hands, opening their
asses like a ridiculously thick, dusty book in a back corner of a library.
I want the man who knows its wiser to wash his hands before he handles his cock at the
urinal.
I want the missing piece of Van Goghʼs ear.
I want the blood from Caravagioʼs sword.
I want the soiled sheets found under Anna Nicholeʼs lifeless body.
I want the old America
where everybody went for milkshakes, got hand jobs in the back of their dadʼs car, and
women were smart enough to not want to join the army.
I want childhood obesity.
I want squeezable mayonnaise.
I want anybody hanging on by a thread.
I want anybody named Ethan, Dylan, Madison or Emma.
I want the Sunday night dread.
I want the ass grabbers, nose pickers, bed wetters, bible thumpers. close talkers, high
talkers, shit talkers and double dippers.
I want the woman who drowned her 5 kids in the tub.
I want the bath water.
I want this that and the other.
I want to let you in on an awful secret.
I want all these things.
I want all these things to write me letters
telling me what a great painter I am.
Drew Simpson is a degenerate Canadian painter currently living and self destructing in Berlin.
Represented by
http://www.wildegallery.de/
http://www.galeriedeste.com
http://www.cuttsgallery.com/
contact me at
artmonstr@gmail.com
