My parents, the providers, would say to me; “We found you in the trash,” followed by mockery and mimicry in a strong French accent. “Our blood is running through your veins,” and they would stink in vain. “You grew up in my belly,” and they would look at each other bursting in laughter. “You are not my child,” words would be spat in my face, two inches away from my eyes. “You are not my child. I am not your mother. Go see your mother,” words would again be spat in my face, two inches away from my eyes. “You’re mixed up,” were repeated twice in laughter when I would share flashbacks of my birth in my mother’s arms with my father near standing still in the corner. My parents, the providers, would never provide an explanation of which my brain, some time on its own, tried to rewire; “Remember when you said that I am not your child. Why, why did you say that to me for,” and they left me—in silence.
Recent Posts: Amine Batbouti
Waking up… Me: YOU’RE SO CUTE. A few seconds later… Me: Meow. Waking up…
Playing a video game… Me: Yeah, I should probably go back online now so I could check on my stuff and shit. A few seconds later… Me: Nope, I’m not missing out on anything. Playing a video game…
“I have no regrets,” no one gets away with it—admit—you pussies.
Blessed with the best inclination and yet you chose to dismiss the godly perfection; “well that’s too bad.”
“Oh, she looks handsome and sane—she must be narcissistic and vain.”
I have an idea, why don’t everybody just go back to their country of origin; you know back to your lands—shotgun, I’m first—because I think that we have all just over-welcomed our visit haven’t we and it’s starting to stink now.
Stranger: What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think about prisons? Me: Recovery institutions.
Isn’t interesting how in this painting my cat’s fur got on the cloth and in the paint and dried all over my canvas and now I’m stuck doing with the texture which may keep my critics only guessing where do I get my inspirations from; I don’t know, ask life.
“Let me nourish my ego,” and then what.
“Being helped, sponsered, and/or supported in the art world is a childish and an immature concept that needs to end,” basically you want us dead—say goodbye to your reputation.
Deliberate copies and/or falsified reproduction of my work is not tolerated; anyone who initiate and/or knowingly holds such counterfeit is met with misfortune and losses.