I open my eyes, slowly

I didn’t die at midnight

The pink sunrise, is a cupcake

waiting to be eaten.

I have no plans, because my plan didn’t work

I am full of life, with nothing to do

I play for perfection

for the green golf course

full of fog

where I hit perfect golf shots

into dawn.

There are perfect paintings

and perfect people

perfection is an ideal

it is scorned in society

because no one can live-up to the standard

I live for it

because it can’t be achieved

we can only respect, what we can’t conquer

Nature

the game of golf

and some women.

There is the perfect novel

the perfect writer

He lays down the line with purity

“You want to make a lot of money.”

“No—I just want to do it.”

“You want fame—glory.”

“I want power.”

It’s the perfect putt

the perfect comeback

the perfect date

the perfect girl

the power to set something in motion

Perfect philosophy is having an impenetrable standard

society has them

and they usually go like this:

too fat

too skinny

too poor

too strange

Society wants their own perverted perfection, so that people stay paralyzed

My kind of perfection, doesn’t have any limits

it’s the stars

burning

with nuclear explosions

Art is worthwhile, because the artist decides

perfection

“and god said it was good.”

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