Every dream, every batshit angel has ever been

fig.098.62) DOOOM

Greasy popcorn, a timeless quiz and that song from the movie where they dance, everything is with us tonight. In this calamitous gown you say, "rose as a thorn and yet, still off without much use for sleep tonight."

While I say, "Unsure of any principle, the only channel my old scratchy eyeballs have for relating stupid through their backward lens is this calendar. See here, right below the knee. It is here that I struggle."

Our ballroom is in the back but our sofa might need to to be moved first. Homeless and insecure, my packages go elsewhere. My phone is a lump of plastic where there's been a ring of gold and several senseless warts to measure. I'm old witch after all and my knowing is frightened. It's bathed in the light of many suns but it doesn't sleep well either.

"It's here where February lurks, just 28 days and counting."

There's some fastness with the absorption and heat but then there are whole meals without any teeth. Reckless stories and riddles from behind the bar, my glass is full of all the known hurts and grim dust we've had. This freaky yesterday is going like some old bread found on the street. There's part of someone's side of fries and there's a mask that's in a green puddle. All of it is soon to be as gone as this pregnant friend of mine or the archduke of somewhere south.

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