|Operating System: disbelief|
overcastin wet wool wrapped up toovercast by carissima82
sunken-eyed city glass,
i dreamt tattletale grey cloudcover
or heavily, a beaten ocean
sent to the sky on swollen fists,
a white blood thickened ground.
wind with a warm tongue
there is some fear
that this sweet, ash rain
is the Devil come to love us,
seeing us pallid,
pitiful sons to be sure.
bad habits of dirty hands
yellowed as we drowsed and slept.
even Paving Men lay stone-dead
beneath collapsed hands.
persisting folks clothe in fog,
(developing eyelessness and creamy transparency
within a few centuries)
and fumble through
unknowable crowds, wire hanger trees
with no flesh or irregular blooms to speak of.
March, in a processionMarch, in a procession by carissima82
our unraveling body
is made naked too soon;
the sun wakes quieted crickets
to witness sticky, new breath.
but in your bones, above the heart,
you wait to cripple.
no more alive than an earthworm
tiring of the insanity of being his own wife,
perpetuating their bed.
and not one birth but
the vernal food of your own remains,
our heated ghost in the risen soil.
bathes beneath the dim, bird-fractured sky
and bones of snow numb our limbs to panic.
we act as the skeletal earth,
burgeoning ribs and tulip-fingered,
for love of the bodiless and damned.
we are equally contrived and grotesque,
March's liverish children
crocus-pocked and repentent.
hour of the rathour of the rat by carissima82
an oceanic cold staggered in
grasping his bellypain
supposing he'd likely be
only a skinny trickle next year
and a languorous drought
to finish us off.
he looked longingly after each cigarette but
you've never seen him so faithful,
tired, industrial, drowning out the hours
(eastern salt makes him itch
and eats his patience.)
i watch him
i warm as i think
we've killed so many old men
what's one more.
and this one the oldest,
glimpsing spring by winter absent
orphaning us all
to pray in the heat.
the christ i continue in,
unfolds into paler wine and ignores.
just above the open-air city
in guilt, we lost all of it:
the ocean's chill,
the stricture of my stomach.
what is left of our hunger
we will burn in the shadowbox
the preteristwaist-deep,the preterist by carissima82
man blinks his only eye with a good lid
rubs the other with his fist
trying to figure.
some fish dart frightening quick
right between him,
if just for a taste.
clouds of pigeons strain low,
about to sink gut-first
nothing to fear
from the mundane in strange order:
plumbing grown through seizuring asphalt
or cars coated gangrene,
seem headstones either way,
whole people idle
digging for children,
is only irreligious routine.
these are small, heedless things.
quiet soup, all abs
PaintThis text is a sort of profile on the artist Grier Blumenschine. In compiling the content I searched for a form that would somehow relate (not reflect) the paintings and personality of the painter. The italics are written statements by the artist and the rest derived from various multimedia(s) and conversation.Paint by PopMcfly
-Sometimes Grier paints it then sees it. Other times he sees it then paints it, he prefers neither.
-Upon beginning a work, Grier seeks to inhabit or re-contextualize utter emptiness.
communication outside of contextual constraints- paranoid of reference, in this way a language decipherable by only universal means of collective generation, there being a casual relationship to impulse and interpretation. perception undermines experience.
-His painting is proof that additive subtraction is more additive then subtractive,
-Insofar as Duchamp renounced art for chess, Grier plays infrequently.
the layered canvas accumulates, in one literal frame, infinite (the
State and GrandState and Grand by TheWritt
We know somewhere subsists:
this chap by the platform tracks
toddling old woman, squirming
in waiting, as their eyes
dodder amiably down tunnel.
The blind strength of a train
a majusculus and blunted refrain
humming up the three length.
Mrs. Evens, extending herself
apeice two wilted plum ankles
charily stiffens her knee.
Our gentleman, in haste, makes one quiet stride then
bumps, sniggering, her rear side.
Giving her first a rifleous laugh
over the rusty clattering grime.
What last thought of hers now lost
past those who read The Times.
Only a name in Sec. D., Obituaries,
resigns to record Evelyn's memory.
With but a skip and hop our man
skirts the rail for an escalator:
the surface brings to him a billion
faces snug a front their minds.
None knowing this silly urbane
prankster exists among their frail
mother's indifferent subtrain lines.