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| fig.45) Let's talk about love |
This is after all of that talk about painting and painting things clean and free from the sounds of value. - After PvZ, after SMJ
Radio, radio, barn owl hoot, the tainted thing in the dry black grove on the pale clay mound. No chairs, no chairs or tables, no beasts, no beasts with guns in the back seat of my checkered yellow car. The walls of the basin are like cold tonic being served over traffic and the walls are like 8 foot high piles of dung in the center lane. The cloud of super-villain in front of us is drinking from his paper cup and he laughs a little too much like Frank laughs.
"Cold coffee is cold enough," He tells me from his mirror. He casts some blinker, promptly switches into the right hand lane. He slides in beside a great hovel of a necromancer then pounds the steering wheel for effect. "The market is a cultural construct, a series of black eyed occurrences. The market is all math that's been translated through the actions of determined transformation. The market is the cultural construction that's most subject to our influence. The market is not immune to anything that's being said. So why attempt to avoid the market when you can work to exact your influence on it. The market is the stick of culture that's up my ass and it's up yours too."
The room is an empty shape like a square with two square windows cut into different walls. AN puts his bed in the back of it on the first night. Then the next day he spends an hour or two pulling up the lively carpet and foam junk that's on the floor. The wood underneath is tough as stones. While the brick wall above it is painted to resemble a woman that's naked. There isn't much color to her, she seems ashen maybe even cold waxing in her Titian drag as she is.
When AN finishes he pulls his bed back under Marilyn, that's the name we collectively provide to the lumpy brick woman. He plugs in a blinking red alarm clock and then he opens the back door.
The squeaky door lets out onto the wooden fire escape. The slats and the floor boards are thick with dusty white, crusty chunks of inexpensive parlor wash, old lime and bat shit that's been mixed inside caustic pails and slathered on the steps with horse hair brushes amid swarms of pelican like flies. AN opens the door and he looks down the steps. The gangway lets itself into a tiny backyard that's full of hot sun and concrete. He looks around. He laughs at the house next door. Then he laughs like Frank would until he goes back inside.
"The thumb of my heart is wane," says he drinking water from a small metal soup container.
"But this is what it is to be on top of it," I tell him. "To be contemporary, to make statements of flash and grandeur without a lick of truth. This is what it's like to be a stain. The contemporary fluff of reason might be a derailment. The whole train can go over the side like a dusty whale falling flat on the floor."
"The trip of it, it's a whole powerball fantasy anchored in a sea of obligation to the debt of dead and living alike. Power doesn't grow other than anger, it can't educate the envious and it won't comfort without cost. Power needs something to bind it. To snake through the seams and gunk up the parts that bang together. That old whale needs some grease for its skids, am I right?"
The room is an empty shape like a square with two square windows cut into different walls. AN puts his bed in the back of it on the first night. Then the next day he spends an hour or two pulling up the lively carpet and foam junk that's on the floor. The wood underneath is tough as stones. While the brick wall above it is painted to resemble a woman that's naked. There isn't much color to her, she seems ashen maybe even cold waxing in her Titian drag as she is.
When AN finishes he pulls his bed back under Marilyn, that's the name we collectively provide to the lumpy brick woman. He plugs in a blinking red alarm clock and then he opens the back door.
The squeaky door lets out onto the wooden fire escape. The slats and the floor boards are thick with dusty white, crusty chunks of inexpensive parlor wash, old lime and bat shit that's been mixed inside caustic pails and slathered on the steps with horse hair brushes amid swarms of pelican like flies. AN opens the door and he looks down the steps. The gangway lets itself into a tiny backyard that's full of hot sun and concrete. He looks around. He laughs at the house next door. Then he laughs like Frank would until he goes back inside.
"The thumb of my heart is wane," says he drinking water from a small metal soup container.
"But this is what it is to be on top of it," I tell him. "To be contemporary, to make statements of flash and grandeur without a lick of truth. This is what it's like to be a stain. The contemporary fluff of reason might be a derailment. The whole train can go over the side like a dusty whale falling flat on the floor."
"The trip of it, it's a whole powerball fantasy anchored in a sea of obligation to the debt of dead and living alike. Power doesn't grow other than anger, it can't educate the envious and it won't comfort without cost. Power needs something to bind it. To snake through the seams and gunk up the parts that bang together. That old whale needs some grease for its skids, am I right?"
"Bottles break, MT. Either too much or not enough," he says. "but it's their charge of purpose like the hard fault experienced from within a flawless whiskey, That's what you're all about and I respect that. Hum hum diddle dee, she bathes in the ice cream, she bathes with her toes, she snorts up her liquor with a pinched up hose. You know, no one ever goes over the wall, that the reservation's over there too. No one climbs that fence and ever tosses their bike after themselves. No one."
O' AN.
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