readymade1 - postmodern art

The Hallway Part1

The Hallway of Oblivion

I recognize that my metaphysical world was outside my past world of experience. This alternative world was not above my past world, but beneath it. The alternative world that I was in was a corruption of the human experience. I did not find joy there, I only found fear and desperation. My fulfillment as a human being was suppressed in this alternative world. This alternative world was an evil world, a shadow world of the life I once enjoyed. This was a world without change, my life of becoming had ended and now I was in the nothingness of an alternative world. I was trapped in a permanent world without change. This was a world that has no way out.

Human life does not have a greater significance. This has all been a catastrophic miscalculation of reality. Our histories are written as a slow and certain decline. This life is a burden. There really is no good reason why human life should continue to exist. Are we alive merely for convenience? When a life is weighed upon the scales of reality, every life is discovered to be lacking merit and value. Everything in this existence is trash, rotting garbage that has no value. The good in life does not justify the evil in this life.

Sometimes we strain to see the other side and then there are those moments when we can see clearly and everything falls into place. Of course we may not like the place where it takes us. Most of us do not have a choice in the manner nor the strength to resist it. Sometimes you can feel it inside of you growing beyond your control.

This dark place must be destroyed. I deny the existence of the absolute. I have learned to deny the possibility of certainty. I reject the possibility of absolute moral or ethical values. There is no truth. The concept of truth is a social construction. Truth is defined by the powerful. Thus, the destruction of all truth is the foundation for the improvement of life. Death has its own hidden forces which can only be experienced through death.

the pointy stick

That Pointy Stick

she found it, running around

where she said that she couldn’t

I think I will, Vickie had it

recite your prayers, it goes back to Sue

too little, too late, too much for the pictures

to bind your will, last rolling papers

I did not mean for this, solid bloom

it came out all wrong, sipping whiskey

to the window, your thrill, as I climbed upon the ladder

she said it was all about love, all about the intention

the bet upon the wheel, to jack the bitch

gone all week, all but the original purpose

plastic bags, about 4:40 or so,

that will work, for original sin

The Visionary Ghost

The visionary Ghost

Seeing is ethnographic

high upon your perch

questions from the sick

squeeze and cough

I looked up Wednesday

she saw stars in my eyes

doing the devil’s bidding

her grayness was excitable

I will wait until the time is ripe

embrace your ritualized cruelty

the play without words

only the actions of the fearful

pour your distrust upon me

I have learned to see through your eyes

A Note on Pathos

A Note on Pathos

Weak feelings of foreclosure, one breath high upon the pile

a monumental steamroller, underneath, while the crowd shouts for more

eating flesh, pulling the flesh, smashing everything down, eviscerate

incited agenda, want to dissect, everyone who stood

you feel nothing, to lose everything, emotions through, and the distance grows

no internal apocalyptic, never loved, evil compelled by logic

the numbness, a rejection of everything, furrowed people

and care about nothing, the strive, the purpose, the agenda

struggling within, to die once more, dead in their eyes

this creeps upon, from her lips, with bright eyes and darkened souls

you, recognizable soul, slow corrosion, I nail you to the floor,

crawls up the back, the forces of good and evil, bloodthirsty ghoul

and takes you with the wildness, never inhabited, under the devious face

by surprise, raised in your own image, they do lie, falling asleep

with capacity, chewing your heart, here to trick you, to fold

the most important, turns to the mouth, seeing darkness, into little creatures

you feel nothing, hoisted white flags, plastic spreading sickness

or capacity for empathy with anyone else, giving the flame

you become a blind and brutal force, a proxy for freedom, for execution, sick like you

that has no direction, burying your head, breathe in the dark as the others sleep

or destination, swallowed, engulfed, feeling the blood, out into the streets.

Leaving

Leaving

Out into the street, dragged, under your nose

they, you, us, killing thing-fingerless gloves

executed, dressed all nice and fancy-black leather

all others, admired touch, which a velvet

burned the pretty words, some very subtle things

tongues nailed up with your shadows, pretending

on the courthouse walls, I rolled you down.

Look, dead prophets, a buildup of layers

once flowed as your boredom laughed

never owned, me the views, to be real

by the love song from everyday life.

Now they are silent, large landscapes

staring into the distance , all sepia tones

and dead little fleck, light upon your breasts

like the rest of us, your rawness.

Fields, still comes through, never more beautiful

with good intentions, I watched and waited

changed so much, as your scarlet see-through blouse

because they were blessed, danced through the streets

with such insight, repeat ourselves, with flowers in your ears

and understanding, building upon the other.

Tupelo (Published Bone Orchard Poetry)

sitting on floor, casting long shadow

with the smell of bodily pronounce

physical exertion, the end-slaughterhouse

propped up all around you, with flamboyance

can possess, between your legs, voices

hear the music, anymore; you hide it under your seat,

poison everything, with mercy and born

they will never fade, inhospitable cradle

smoke, holding Bacchus down

Valhalla, with one foot-on your soul

I didn’t realize, the downsize of truth

the full extent of the down here, the awakened flesh

of your injuries, and the beforehand starts,

the postures of exhaustion, spits freestyle

they fall out empty and get paid

onto the floor; are themselves exhausted

I pick through them, the guilty confessions

everything appears like a slippery nipple

flattened, shortened and bastardized.

SAD

Sad

a stretcher,  no longer parasite to hymnal

stalking blonde, wounded turn, a clear pure evil

alien eyes, chained down there

counter dreamed, cohabitation

obsessed photos, passed through cannibal blue

detrimental body, this world

harvested smear, a whirl

sit with signs and razor blades

hands of death that touch me everywhere

they always say no to your dreams

these nude arms are so long and they bend

past two-story cats with whiskey smiles

and elevator knees that swoon, sucks you down

your tongue purring, as a fishmonger

dark crying, in my hands, more real

holding to the lambs as they scream

tolerate longer sadness, making bones

stretch lone fingers, like coins, take this misery

tornado dramas, static dead skin, emboldened wolf

totaled as stench, a named junkie

throw off the chance, the wait for death

you say to any and all to always

to gather only you and dream electric

lies lost with the doom, human eye

mischievous archway, burn fecund

agnostic freckles, resistance, a pour

moving towards breathing, misdirection

exotic dirty, and any way you can take it

your shapes, have all been sold

echoes of decay, say it all so well

solitude between my fingers, and a dancer

most days lost, most days not feeling