A ring of mold on the bottom edge of the door and a broken window beside me, the christmas lights have decayed into uselessness, dripping in broken strands from the hedges, adding to the compost heap of merriment, the old party streamers of drunks whooping it up in the dusty new years eve bar of worn elbows and hunched shoulders around a shot of whisky. Chores. It's the weekend procrastination that stretches over a series of images to become a lifetime of still images. Cobweb building in time lapse. A cracked barricade on the back door of the old house, UPC stickers staring at me from the brackets like slit pupils in a silver goat eye. In claymation I form the expanse of forehead and the pulpy horns of the animal as police batons, a demon half at peace watching with the laziness of a Koala, horse teeth and white fur framing it's flat mouth, wide like a picket fence.
"The control room has been disconnected. Fuse boxes hang dangling from the walls from layers of old paint peeling away like a cancerous tongue, tumors benign; the face of an old witch reflected in scratched CD's, unsalvagable memories dirt scarred; boxes stored at useless angles. a chaotic feng shui of old briefcases with unreliable locks waiting to spring open on windy days and toss trash like a bomb into the wet streets, a bulldozer of ragged fingernails scraping at the pulp, a love letter made out of an infinite series of marilyn monroe clones in a steady pattern of degredation measured in lip gloss to photoshop effects, air brushed sensuality; the remnant of a spotlight that was never there, glossy prints at $8.99 a slice invading the dull nautilus brain with an icepick of harsh and unrealized frantic need, the obtainable collection of missed opportunity . . ."
The beast laments with a heavy sigh and steps back, it's face a stencil of a doorway onto green rolling hills and robin's egg blue sky where puffy clouds shaped in letters of the alphabet are frozen above the bliss in a push-pinned dance of joy; the child's nightmare -- it spells an ancient Sumerian message of doom above the playing field. Outside the windows, the stars burn out.
"The control room has been disconnected. Fuse boxes hang dangling from the walls from layers of old paint peeling away like a cancerous tongue, tumors benign; the face of an old witch reflected in scratched CD's, unsalvagable memories dirt scarred; boxes stored at useless angles. a chaotic feng shui of old briefcases with unreliable locks waiting to spring open on windy days and toss trash like a bomb into the wet streets, a bulldozer of ragged fingernails scraping at the pulp, a love letter made out of an infinite series of marilyn monroe clones in a steady pattern of degredation measured in lip gloss to photoshop effects, air brushed sensuality; the remnant of a spotlight that was never there, glossy prints at $8.99 a slice invading the dull nautilus brain with an icepick of harsh and unrealized frantic need, the obtainable collection of missed opportunity . . ."
The beast laments with a heavy sigh and steps back, it's face a stencil of a doorway onto green rolling hills and robin's egg blue sky where puffy clouds shaped in letters of the alphabet are frozen above the bliss in a push-pinned dance of joy; the child's nightmare -- it spells an ancient Sumerian message of doom above the playing field. Outside the windows, the stars burn out.
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