This tag is associated with 18 posts


dear dear, the art of art is self-described. i’ve often grumbled this when criticism came around. people could describe anything, feel everything, and yet none of the interpretations mattered for all of them did. art was, i felt, contained in its own corpse and left to die through the living lost. i tend to still … Continue reading


i am a still life. i am a potted flower desperately bending to any sunlight, including your own. i am the water that dies through breath. i am the breathing, bold discussion on how art is useless but so are we. i am we trying to not try to spend the day in bed. i … Continue reading

man y

do museums exist for men? does art only know the women? where are those crinkled, collapsing sacs of flesh torn and asunder under things heavier than water and lighter than the sun? who draws their balls like rubber comets? when will someone demonstrate the sexless unsuccessful, the losers, the nobodies, those that deny categorization for … Continue reading

the great master baiters

i am starting to think that picasso painted to just get the girls to slip into a sweet summer away from the warm wind and long lost days in front of that great death guernica les demoiselles the weeping woman arm pits bare breasts abound all the females in the world are in the museum … Continue reading

the fridge is warm

i suppose that i wish to see you again when the times are less chaotic when there is enough to drink when there isn’t a catch when there is if only we catch up recalling how much we used to see each other even when drunk especially when there as chaos naked and burping and … Continue reading

lone art

The following was inspired by Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art” which in some ways feels like a lone loan into herself, or maybe me. * The arts of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.   Spring will wilt first, then … Continue reading

wrecked wild wretched witch

we are hideous but we have art   we are fiends but there are still songs   we are human but we can find buts in all even in the artless and songless * everyone is tired from everyone being tired so sleep in my arms and retire * everything is a metaphor for death … Continue reading

moist air

i am convinced one day these strangers will think they know me in their momentary, monumental dissatisfaction that made me dilute here in an attempt at concentration that which connects us which i believe is no more than disconnection and the time that has gone before we realize it and wish to tell someone though … Continue reading

three words for one

love you learn isn’t the first person who says the words to you but instead the first one who doesn’t repeat them back after learning how to say them so lovely * forever before i have known ignorance and have never known it to be blissful * i am a slow drip looking for a … Continue reading

the art of the art

the art is to not know what the art is to hide it under the critics who tell you this is this but not that because this and who realize later that the art stays unknown for it was in them too until they too were under the critics of he is being too loud … Continue reading