Saturday, April 17, 2010

Observations of Paint - Lost his left hand

lost his left hand in a childhood accident playing with gunpowder

Part 1 – the Coming of Quetzalcoatl

(long wall west wing )


The nomads skin has many colours

this wave was almost wholly in browns

her belly, breasts and lips at the front are blue

aggressive, successive waves move, motivated by the promised land

these are the human impulses to change and progress

The leader faces the way, his skin has hints of red in it, but he does not lead the way

the willing mob in grey rushes forth with those who follow and those who fall

by the wayside.

only one stands, waits, pondering, watching , perhaps

he will wait until the stampede calm. perhaps

he will walk towards the horizon instead of the trodden track

Ancient Human Sacrifice

Give your self to the Big Head, the Mask in the sky

the icon of twisted limbs , of toil for the war machine

this is the promised land that you rushed towards

Masked men bleed you on their stone tablets

while the ones in white robes hold you down, hold your hand

and whisper bliss of afterlife

only the masks, worn according to custom, break the tones

of brown and grey, of dirt and stone

Aztec warriors

the dark serpent in the foreground

red rubbed into the grey formed its shape

a serpent of the ground, of soil, of shadows

and behind it, pruned in turquoise and red feathers

ornated in silver, the stern faced generals are seated

the eagle and the tiger

the rooster and the shark

growing comfortable in their rigid seats

the coming of Quetzalcoatl

post colonial man always painted white in his image

blue eyed, white robed, bearded old man and of course

jesus looks like an Aryan; Quetzalcoatl the Aryan - no

I am not a white man in this world on canvas, I am green

the original white serpent was something entirely different ;

ruler and teacher of people, the guide of a lurid parade of Gods

white father - king of Gods arouse from intellectual and spiritual torpor

Greed clothed in skin of his victims

Magic with feet of smoking mirrors

Storms with a twin serpent mask

Death in a dak figure with a skeletal mask

War in blue with feet of feathers

& Fire that rises out of its volcanic home

by the feet of new pyramids, in octaves of red-pink

people shelter the sleeping

people give birth to understanding and cooperation

new base new complexities

Pre Columbian golden age

industry , art and science

three walls of the golden age

but not the age of machines or automata

or mining or gold

fields where green and lush, the maise was gold

blocks of stone revealed their carved faces

and science was a journey into meta cognition

the intrusion of a ventilator grill

is functional but ugly and crude

like Columbus, the label indian and the waves that followed

The de parture of Quetzalcoatl

when you forget about the road of blood and war

when the gilded seats makes your body soft , your mind soft

and the priests and politicians want their power back

then you will choose your cage and suffering

you’ll choose the ignorance of bliss for the harsh reality of knowledge

you will kill the serpent that offered you the apple

and believe it was good and just and you chased him away

and your great cities crumbled efficiently deliberately replaced

with smooth expressionless slabs of stone

The Prophecy

you thought the white Gods were coming

but it was the green pig that came

carrying a heavy cross and pillars of stone

and armoured horses with spears for your hearts

Cortez and the cross

come down into the garden path, through the white door

where the noble man burns his own ships

and when you bow to him he’ll ask you to carry a cross

and when you give him tea he’ll sip it with you

then cut your throat to set you free

you are animus , you bow to the serpent

our slavery will set you free

The Machine

in black and silver horizon

we feed you to the machines

feed ourselves to the machines

spit you out as the machine

when the cloud castle blows away

this is the dawn that arises

on the ground where you killed the white serpent

and tried to deny ever eating that apple

the machine does not forgive, even though

the propaganda poster on its door

clearly states that it does

you can submit your thesis in the complaint box

minimum 99 to a page, signed in triplicates

it will be re viewed by the Mill

your vote will be tallied by the Furnace

please read the results from the chimney

Anglo American

children of the machine, in your green skin

bow your heads to the grill

although you are flesh and blood

you will be automata, once your schooling is done

Hispano American

children of the ask, fodden for cannons

bury your noses in cash

slid to you under the table

and please look away

as the green man slips the blade in

between your shoulder blades

but you never forgot

your right to protest

Omnisciencis – Gods of the Modern World

The white door is closed, bars in a grid of 9

9 black panels is the view of the horizon

it’s a weak looking mass produced door; their gate

they’ll soon hang up a red, do not disturb sign

to keep you out, to keep you from peering in

don’t look beyond the bonfire, you’ll miss the shadow dance

the light will blind, burn your retina

ponderous tomes

of doom doom doom doom

mob mentality whimsy in the light

yeah into the night

of denials flight , a dreamer who is too weak to face up

something pressed to the hunter, you’re leaving sweet

dress up, dumb dumb dumb

it’s time to Questalcoattl , seek self help , seek self care

I can runaround, gods of the modern world

how can I forget you, but try I seek

The obtertrician catches the skeleton infant

he is already wearing an academics cap at birth

stillborn knowledge reborne into automata

there is no time to rest, to reconsider, to reconnect

gown and cap holds the tombs of recycled dead ends

skeleton mother, birth of grey books, she’s in labour

falling into pieces, dead but screaming with persistant stagnation

piles of

shelf life to collect dust with gilded letters along their spines

spines against the flames of our space, of our chosen reality

flames pink like tissue, like flesh of the dissected path

preserved in glass domes the bones remain

as the modern day gods, through the modern day preaches watch

in the colour of flaming ships their hollow eyes watch their writing .

hollow eyes towards the world they live in, towards the new dynamic

living breathing life of their dream

the academic, the preacher, the politician and the general

watch as they clog the world with stagnant dreams

Modern Human sacrifice

to the god of war we sacrifice the young

in the bondage of nationalism and politics

to stay away the Terror

the new stone tablet is the sand of the east

the dagger replaced with a vial of oil

your un named son died , the New Heroes ,

to keep the Gods of Terror at bay

Modern Migration of the spirit

global nomad migrated his spirit

it’s the only way to see the white again

to see it as the spectre it is, broke it fans out

into a myriad of colour displays

the ‘promised land is a junk yard

axe in hand he takes down the cross

and all other antiquated symbols

drowning the war machines muzzle

in the shards of your stone pillars

his beard is a tangle and his spine all crooked

we’re not fishes anymore, we’re the ocean

and these pieces make a new mosaic

we don’t need the manual, this isn’t a puzzle

but every piece is crucial, as long as it is broken

by the axe of the thinking , reflective mind

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