Your sculptures of morality will be begging and weeping and seething when the Panzers knock through the gallery walls. 

What will you clutch onto when your handbags are scorched by napalm?

Holidays in the South, vaporised by what I already knew.

I’m laughing, from the thermal imaging camera.

Camera flash!

Performance art straffed by the Luftwaffe.

The only theory that exists is the instruction manual cellotaped to the cardboard box that my rifle was posted in.

Documentation… played on repeat, loudly, on the History Channel.

I paint my fury in engine oil, masturbating to the popularity of Rauschenberg.