Observations of paint # 7

Observations of paint # 7

Mariú Súarez, “Truth”, 72"x60", oil and egg-tempera on canvas, from the series The Beginning of a New Era

Veristic surrealism (vs the automatists )

Paranoiac Critical Method to

Oniric-Critical Method (Dali) to

the path of individuation (Jung)

The inside, the universe, the mind 

twin sun vision spread 

ripples in the great ocean 

universe o mental hyper links to space 

between the time of matter and chains 

icons watch from above the rooftops 

leaning on our brick wall 

the mob stands in line 

headless faded brown, into grey into bricks 

icons; fathers of knowledge, the objects of historys beacons 

are not watching the people

the flock to the slaughter house, already decapitated 

still walking automatons ; drone of clogs 

they are   watching the solar plexus; geometry , temples 

castles; architecture  of a city – scape ; landscape 

of potential creation

the nodes, television heads in suits and dresses 

with corporate cuts 

watch the roads, backs to the people,   backs to the solar

plexus 

blind to the child bridge

crawling towards the rose   on a patch 

of life 

in a crack of grey stone roads 

only extended attention bi 

lateral intention 

through the core of vision 

focus on the child 

ripples in the great oh  see an 

omen obscured 

to grow into a movement 

ripples  in  stale structure 

Observations of paint # 6

Observations of paint # 6 

Max Ernst, L' Ange du Foyeur, 1937, oil on canvas

Vacana of Between 

viii

my bird pecks at the hand 

muse pecks at the seeds 

she pecks  to shape rough 

edges ledges

where the iron monkey used to lean

dangle freely as a rough stone

yet to tumble in the froth of the wild 

river

reaching the delta to build banks of sand

scooped up from broken hour-glasses

my bloody hands build a fire 

 steady hands build with a smile 

hands build  to shape change

weaving  meaning 

the cicada guides the flight of the cock

with dragon tears dancing like loplop

thank you for the blood

O spirit of between 

so much better 

with a muse in the hand 

than a dousin birds on my roof 

lining power poles and shitting 

at your peering eye as you walk 

past 

thank you for the blood and hope

Observations in paint # 5

Observations in paint # 5 

(Yacek Yerka , giclee, the walking lesson)

http://www.yerkaland.com/

by the edge 

of the tree line 

where the cuckoo  Head

has spring-spine wired  to a hollowed nest 

the beast guards  worn 

hound bound and wound  to a regular hum 

the time  of  clocks

time  of  mechanics 

of  cogs 

cumulus clouds boil in shapes of dreams complexity  

landscape stretches out in sublime warmth of colours  endless horizon 

trying to distract the Be(a)st guardian to move again 

eyes covered in chrome  bells 

only needles  syringe to the sky 

taste is lost in the face  of  digits

numbers of an extended 

circle now end on 13 

guarding the incomplete 

dom of little 12's  built to be incomplete

never complete

automata hollow guards the wheels of machines

legs barely holding  his weight

stagnation at the edge of change

his face  a ticking code to change

Vacana of Between

vii


on the floor, in loading docks
our work space is filled
with minds
Attending
Dreams
Holding
Dyspnea at bay

Bottled up by pharmaceutical remedies

Poking your finger in the hole in a dam
Builds the pressure Nausea
The headache , dry mouth
Ramped up heart rate
Crushing expenses


flag poles the will
on standby on a stretcher

stretches the mind
universal focus scatter

white froth, white noise
obscure the embers
of Between

Vacana  of Between 

vi.

 

there is a constant rumble of waves

outside my window

from the ocean of roads

weaving between neon flecked islands

 calming

constant rumbling chaos of ocean

 

I find it calming

o spirit of between

 

Vacana of Between

v.

from start to chain to end

i chased his tail and he chased mine

in the dojo of uncle code

who stained the owl cheery red

cherry marinated in cock

tails drunk that hollows out symbols

in the breeze by the pool in a penthouse

while gourmet chortling at

the live footage of bare fists

breaking a bulls horn,

killing it

only fists

looking at their fading hands

ornate vines

like venetian filigree

caught a running man

like a knot of twine spun

lifted from the ground in embrace

untangled in a heap a moment

of finding footing in new direction

a hesitation

dirty souls

shoes heavy

dirty lungs

mind heavy

he stares into the horizon

she points at the crooked tail

are they parallel?

horison sinks and deforms

parallel ? twin steps head for the edge

of perception

with a Question

of between

Vacana  of Between 

iv.

 

The circle draws

circles seeing him-

self as a line in-

side the orb

He arrow kisses the throat

of the goat on the altar

in the de-

votion

of circles

 

words litter the ground

in red and yellow leaves 

thrown at the sky

they become dust before

a single sentence

reaches the wall

of an orb

 

is the circle moving

pushed by hands of being ?

 

Between ?

 

maybe she’s born with it

maybe it’s make-believe

 

Oprah’s built a new school in africa

where the students get one visitor a month

forbidden contact with their family

 and friends outside the school

breeding african-americans in Africa

 

donate your money now

or we let the children die

 

Cock and bull

all

an 18^th century gentleman

represents in a modern movie script

is the mock-reality-tv-behind-the-scenes-handy-cam thing

that has been popularised through shows like

arrested development, the office, the extras

and the sad ‘comeback’ with phoebe, what was her real name again ?

and of course mockumentaries by the brilliant group of people that made

… …., waiting for guffman, best in show, a mighty wind and …new… ,

the finest of our modern mock-reality or mock-novel satire

or is it possibly mock-media now

at least they mentioned the black page

 

but left out the plotlines and the literary treasures

like the blank fill in yourself page describing a lovely lady

or the squiggle representing a characters whip trajectory

 

cock and bull

watch out for the sentimental traveller behind it

Swift was a romantic weaver

holding on to the dream

of his indian princess

who is promised to another

oh dear Eliza

his ink would always love you

cock and bull

he spun post-modern satire

before there was a modern to be post

about

 

maybe she’s born with it

maybe he’s just a bit mentally

sick                         diseased

            disordered

 

Dr. Phil seems to have a growing following

of little bald psycho-tv-preachers

guiding americans to fit into the mould

of average society

along with Tony Robbins

these people represent our preachers

in the stead of the church and priests

of A/CCC state

that is  an

atheist/christian capitalist conservative state

 

so with the DSM-IV under their arms

like a psychologists bible

and jars of pills in their suitcase

they herd you blindly on

like an ant in a white line 

Å

Å

Tower of Yabberwocky

 

She muted, man

she Muted the Babel;

climbed the tower

 

Ivory only reached

to the clouds

it was pitch

voideous

black, man;

 

beyond the blanket of fog

found

perfection in absorbing colour

 

perfect

is never perfect

enough

 

Building

sky scrapers

to reach

phallic heights

needing a Band

of Hope

travelling to peaks

like a heart beats spike

huddled into sterile

elevators

guided into studios

heaving, strumming and beating out pop, bubble bursting cheese;

a view in panorama

of our modern architecture

like fast food inspired art

between sponge-like monuments

launch

at the sky

so fast

the skin tear off the bones

falling off the tower

or beaten down by the
monstrously

robotic

taxidermi

King of the Forrest/Tower/Hill

falling de-volutional design burns into white canvas

cross of heretic christ burns into a holy mountain full of caves and volcanic pride

 

 wondering

if goddess is

androgynous

third-eye

of vision

of depth in sight

or a

branding of a perfect circle

with an upside-down

cross

at its base

wondering as the Yabberwock

eats

the knots of global babel

that could have riddled

in to

a new horizon

watching  Aljaezeera and listening to adbusters - live without dead time, which I stumbled on; labelled as Saul Williams and DJ Spook

 

Tiny Bird, a man in China .. has helped 60 000 people. helping migrant workers get back their money from rogue clients

 

a migrant workers employer owes him 6000 dollars, in confronting him the employer punched him in the face

and locked him up

the cops took him away and let the employer go

 

patiki eyes flower his cheeks

got a face of demand

choking on the cradle

got a need to demand

crawling on hands

dreaming that we stand

like strangers on the street

strangled but standing

with a face of demand

baby eyes flower his cheeks

got a fist of demands

like Tiny birds wings he saddles

a voice of demand

crawling in sand

like an hour glass trickling

into hour of change

third eyes flower his cheeks

 

hi I’m me I’m using this to sell you this

intercepts through every window, flahsing too quick

for the conscious 

absorbed in the subconscious 

distracting from the message

weaving into the map of thought

a ceremony of senses , alibi in a silent district

excusing             thought

executing             opinionated reflection 

I am not name

I am not

the names given

names taken

embraced

rejected

I am my names

you can not

say the name

of the idea that lies

between

I said the names

external & internal

life & dreams

death & change

you are not your

name

I am your name 

 

except in

moments

when you become your name

once named 

you can be ism

all can be ism

all mob ism

i am ism

society takes us

by the hand

groin & spine

wrapping soma in blue

ribbons; techno coloured seams

and a red cross –

stitch

i am names

dancing down concrete slab

alleyways with perfect

4 x 3 windows (= 6 ά²)

 

 

 

is ά just an incomplete chain of eternity or an hour glass

pouring its sand into nothingness  ?      abyss

 does it have an Aeon‘s hands  collecting fragments

in time of being ground from stone tablets of thought?

 

in moments you become a name do you live in moments ? moments are sublime

like watching endless horizon from the highest peak

as gusts of uninhibited winds threaten to push you off the steep face of a mountain

 

 

 

 

Name = Ism

transient the brown leaf paints its face green

 

Inverted cripple

            surfaces in the ebb

ocean retracts as the moon

slips under the covers

of a sky in dawn

inverted sun

she is not  interested

in the beam - touch

of the black hole

inserted name

            leathery topography,  eroding,

            unchanging;                         hides a face

 picks up drift -

bones and river organs

building the hollow nest

of a stick castle

a structure of the moment

inserted ism

waves of the ride fingers the base

moon ; she embraces

                                                             tide returns

face sink                         body floats

pieces

                                                the ocean

reclaiming

stolen

 t            r            a            n            s            i            e            n            c            e 

Vacana of Between

iii.

..The 'great' and the 'little'
show their arrogance in the bargain

established they stagnate
in codes and conventions they cement
traditions that
organise and
catalogue
our universe,

before we can touch the light
beyond the tunnel of perception

the price-list is made available
the inventory
is printed and copyrighted
we have named
all the stars

the great and the little
show their ignorance

O spirit of Between

Vacana of Between

ii.
the ground becomes a
whiteout folk-shadow blanket
when mob scatter the streets
lights shroud from drooping
poles of the Little

their giant hands and rusty mind
spin the cogs
with steed-like hooves

can I see the ground
without rejecting the Mob-

yajna
herd
tongue


O spirit of Between

Vacana of Between

i.
the sky becomes a
holographic swirl blanket
when the pan fries the clouds
opticon glares scraping the sky-
poles of the Great

his big eye and wooden beard
covers the sky
with raving shadow

can I see the sky
without rejecting the pan-
veda
opticon
eye

O spirit of Between