Ask iAN

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Ask iAN * Painting Francis

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 Having erotic spasms imagining the knochen & radioulnar joint
splintering sharp as they crash home through the bloated front door face
and exit the back of the skull
a solid silver brick speeding at free fall speed through moist & horizontal undercarriage...The
blood is now an illuminating aphrodisian bevvy...or similar to ink gone to work for the tongue...

What of the darlings of Gossip?
Everyone who is Anyone needs...disciples...some are just more into bad speed
instead of fasting...

and what of the sex...
so it's like a slaughterhouse...
One man's tumors & thyroid nodules are another man's cherries and grapes
sex speaks to me through a language of charred black ribs with damnation running through me as persistent
as the pain of cracklung and the walls...made of thin and see through plastic never embrace the blood...just
drops it to the floor unfresh
like a stillborn... I hate it when humanity ask me to make a donation of teardrops,
I may be an ashtray, a bodybag or a glutton for sweet punishment but i am hardly
a mark to be swindled

My idea of a warm blanket is
a speeding car without breaks

Chaos in nature is just as natural as the birth of Walmarts covering the nation
in it's own version of the plague...it's a germ the people have longed to live with...

even if all the while it is breaking them down into pop art boxed units of pig shit*

I make Art in a very small arena
where
the blood
beats the blood
into blood into blood back
into blood

Most people spend their entire lives
polishing something that two weeks after they've died
gets lobbed into
a dustbin
such a waste...you don't have to be a gardener to know that
good things come from cultivating dirt
flowers pressing up
through the grave

I begin another day
brushing the bones inside of my face
I carry on throughout the day mostly uninterested in
the blur of activity surrounding me...I am like a dead Greek God...just
waiting for the blood of some great golden 3 legged centurian to submit me
until i am broken over the brass
the dehydration keeps me fit
dreamless in sleep, i float loose as a leaf on the wind...until the next time
the reflection in the mirror strikes out and
bites me
square in the center of my face

If you really wanna know why i can't fall in love...just step inside of
an examination room and have a whiff of a cut open cadaver...
When it comes to love...I think i'll just carry on renting...

The relief of selling off a clunker
bones peeled through the shred machine's metal roller
and a wall of wine bottles crashing to the bricks as the
cool black basement quakes
release...and death as it does...tops all forms of release

Until then
restrain me
use your arm like a crowbar
and block my face
I swear...I go through knee-pads quicker than
children cut through chocolate
and I'd be rather proud
to die on my knees like a dog
it sure beats the soft tissue death of the man with his head in the clouds

Impaled
tied into a series of knots
crunched in the center and bent like a tin of lager
contorted
cross armed
my life is the song of the crippled dancer with a pinched nerve
it's not a song two people fall in love to...it's more of a selfish number...
danced to alone with nobody else in the hall
like hari kari during a miscarriage
standing in the shadow wearing suicide shoes

Did i ever tell you
that in my heart...my guardian angel

is a vulture.

Art like Life was once the great distraction...today they have merged and become one
and the new great distraction is the cell phone...we live inside of it now more than we live inside of the world around us...we are at the zenith of our distraction level...and Government couldn't be more happy...the future is now and nobody will get in the way of what we want...and that is to be made sick. We beg for sickness and with every order comes an early death. Cherio*

This blurring face running out of time...
The guantlet and range of emotions like holidays, seasons, temperatures and rearranged living room furniture...it's all going to bone
leaving no shadow
leaving no trace
and putting an end
to this
Face
and the visons
behind it

that beat the blood
into blood then
composed into a composition of decompostion
a single work
unto dust*

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