Pirate Song of the Roiling Smash

fig 33.68) Ninja Audition

"Swoops the music, the advice I've taken is honest advice. Swoops again, coming before the math, it's secret is still the trick of it," it's that Burma Shave song playing wildly from the choir above. Once there was a once before when we'd hang calendars from these doors and throw our darts. I remember drinking and sleeping and forgetting everything more often than I probably should. Burning our credit cards like we were kids trying to keep warm. We invented dinner just so we could talk about our taste in shoes.

The large frames leaning against the wall are as empty as villains'. Their mysterious embrasures now knowing only the wall's succor. Kitty posters are all over it and underneath some of the dry splotches of museum grade paint there's a little bit of yellowed tar. There's cut sail cloth in the aisles of this cold submarine, it's auger's lit. "Why didn't you see me? I've been here reading this whole time. I'm nearly done.

You're all roses, witnesses and roses, "The others may have been consumed but I was a monster long before this! But you're not, are you?"

"There's no keeping a clock once you think it's been broken," her dug out eyes seem worthless beside my narrow bed. The art of them has dwindled some in these last years but she still tries. Calling me out, "you old shit bag, get your shoes off my bed. Clean this seat while you're at it."

Shaken suddenly, "Dominic, Matisse in my grill, do you remember?"

"I'm a ghost, she's a ghost," I sing back sullenly. The thin shawl around my shoulders feels heavy. My hear feels heavy. Even the blue of my veins feels heavy. "You should roll me into traffic where my real friends are." This is about where our night usually gets us, singing to one another about soup and the utility of love.

I got that credit card song that's stuck in my head, each low payment's another or the same - Oh whoa oh no, I've got my beer on the sink and I'm doing the bitch - es dish - es, I can't see a goddamn thing and I'm wearing my new vision, If our angel - s were assholes and hang - ing from trees, Sway - ing beneath branches that are dusted with leave - s, They'd smile like full on roses with derision and with scorn, looking like bitter peaches buttered with poppered porn, Oh whoa oh no, my dishes are like wishes, there's one with every beer I've got a heavy hammer to blow them out this year

Comments

The apologist and the appraiser have decided to stay put

dashed wet and grim Oh now, Reagan of steel glitter in pants with which to shake them on down. Oh now, I shit you not for these are the things. Yes in any order you should choose these are the things to please please me, Oh Yeah. - Unmarked letter signed, A to A They'll say to me that it's safe to say so much for ubiquity, for disenfranchisement, and the terrorism of privilege. They'll say to me, With all of the effects from these profoundly toxic effects, is the project of our shared humanity effectively being dismantled. Are these the idle thoughts and sad tidings of despots and the tyrant kings inside of their comfortable towers of raised muck. As I've said before, They're not so far gone as to be gone for the good of all. This is plain to be seen in a world of bent backs and gross hyperbole. I'll sit in any unused doorway. I'll be beside myself while every door is locked. I'll dream of the halls and listen as the curtains, the drinking, an...

Piles of leaves: Letters Campaign

Suddenly old but feeling perfect, my wet underwear is on the the floor. It's gathered round my ankle. Myko laughs, just as wet and full of piss as ever. The violence of our togethering already feels like more than something. I reach out, taking the back of her neck with my hand. She's stepping in as I lean over to write; Dear, Temperance, October, and Brine, You are more than a place to me. More than walls and simple chimes, but I'll write to you anyway. This you'll know as you read my words. From here beside the lark's buttered breast, from under the heavy lids and the bright side kettle where we'll hum. We'll hum together, Bunny. Dickens be damned, we're now brightly doomed. Soon enough we'll see, the forest within the trees. To you, Tigre PS. are more or only this bed, maybe the floor too. We spend the day in, ordering takeout and hiding under the sheets. I get up and pee while Katt is talking about Milton. Her mouth's open, it's as rou...

Not the Willem DeKooning Retrospective (Not Even Close)

Willem DeKooning, Excavation (1950) oil on canvas Yesterday at work I bumped into this piece by Donald Kuspit on DeKooning's retrospective over at Artnet . Then this morning I bumped into this one on L Magazine's site, by Paddy Johnson . I don't know that Paddy Johnson demystifies DeKooning as much as she takes issue with his pallet, declaring it repetitive and boorish en masse. By contrast, Donald Kuspit writes an article painting DeKooning as a sadistic brute inextricably tied to the modern tradition in general and Picasso specifically. Together they make for some interesting reading, particularly as Kuspit never addresses the show itself in favor of drawing his conclusions from individual works. While Johnson seems to wear the show like an imaginary wool shawl, noting it's uncomfortable, out of style, and the zipper is broken. But she doesn't seem to get to a place that addresses what was actually there either, only what she felt was missing or to her mind ...

stagnanTVowels

Search This Blog