Thursday, March 31, 2016
In the mode of a 70's Eric Bolan, Peter Frampton rock star, this born to ruins black guitar-thief revved up the engine of his Ford Mustang
Sour girl - love detective he bangs left-overs from the congregation, loners from patched up relationships, divorcees and distinguished single moms of eccentric high-school girls
Gore galleries, artists who make sculptures from skulls, pieces of human flesh, finger nail and toe nail filings invite him to their cadaver exhibitions
The fecal photographs show opened and closed on the same night. Ten born-again-Christians rumored to set fire to the gallery started smoking cigars blowing smoke dangerously onto oncoming faces
Trigger-happy Houdinis kept hands primed and positioned ready to unlock a glock. With different colors streaked into their pompadours they hung in corners where light-bulbs had dimmed to total darkness.
Hilarity and girls on pharmaceuticals drinking wine unadvisedly collapsing in the middle of the room. Some hung on to shoulders of boyfriends, slouching like a hick dragging a dead body.
A rock show where people start suiciding and promoters catch a fit. Lead singer gets on a mic and tells every one to settle down. Riots ensue as bouncers lift bodies one by one onto the stage.
Cops arrived night sticks in hand carefully leading people out the door. Others stood by patrol cars watching the crowd disperse onto the sidewalks never wanting to interfere
These men in blue captivated by the art-glory, caught in suspense of the visualization of what happens when the rich and sophisticated get high and drunk, want to rule the world
Dozens upon dozens filled the cafes, bars and restaurants brought business to the already fashionable five star eateries. Mixed and matched corporate clientele waited on orders, caught glimpses of what was the art-stressed underbelly
Like the Romeo Blues living the day as artist models. At night they work lounges as dee-jays and bartenders. What they became was no more or less Jewish-empowered than jazz. Black Rock and Roll was a hit.
Black Gothic family where the mother smokes pot unbeknownst to her friends. It's a husband to wife efficacy when the daughters are away. They walk in to the smells. Mother works the Lysol, stoned as hell offering cheese cake before dinner
In the Black Gothic family mother was raised on Siouxsie Sioux. She has lived in London where she fucked and blew White boys. Dating them was never accepted but she did as an offense to her parents
College was a riddle she fought herself to solve. But now she's well paid, works as a psychologist. At times she's abnormal when and if she hasn't been on vacation or her husband hasn't been gigging. That being a jazz musician helps pay rent is a mystery after all
In a black family if I'm doing good everybody better be doing good. God damn the politics on what it means to be poor and black. Prince said money doesn't matter tonight. From Benmont Tench to Bernie Worrell I cut and cuss pieces of American music into my jive soul
So pour some House music into this. Let me shimmy and shake. Cut patterns on the floor. Shoulder surf with my fingers tap tapping like a Fats Waller. We make hoochies out of proper girls. So check your chastity at the door. Come lose some blood, on your knees on the wooden floor or in the stall bent over
Black brothas scheming to get paid. The hustle has always been different. White boys raised on Thomas Jefferson let lose at the books on art and philosophy. For them it's a redirect. How to parlay white supremacy into a wine tasting, coffee table book affair.
The only black man at a loft party hugging the walls. To them he seems safe. At an opportune moment a total stranger mirrors him, uses him like a belly or pillow, rests his ideas and torture on him. White privilege. White predominance.
In the art world you breathe white hot air, beat harangue into a willing participant. It's often some one you like, some one you want to fuck, some one you want to impress. Like the gods in the bars it takes a little liquor, a touch of red or white wine.
But you are from the best schools, you are well spoken. You know the difference between "I am married. Do you want to come home with me"? and "There's my husband. Do you want to join us for a drink"?
In the art world death is a rumor. It's not who you killed. It's who you got to come to your one-man show. So let's not piss on art. Let's not shit onto art
Let us draw up a sizable plan where dead artists are no good. If I'm to die before I make a sale, let me sell my soul to my biographer. Let me pay my dues. Let me talk of crimes I committed, people I paid off. Let my biography be a best seller
In a few words I fell in love with God, my hit man, drug dealer, pimp
I'm married to him. Like the threat of a new day I walk into it:
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
God Funk of Otherworldliness
Generous. Genius. God funk of otherworldliness. Beatitudes. Bodhisattva. Bodhisattva by the beach. Einstein amenities. Hair plush. Warhol's wig. Being Jim Jarmusch. Otherwierdliness. Punk is a father from church having seen God. He hands him his long-neck rifle walks out into the streets a threat. He is spooked. He is Spocked. He is spectacular. Ghosting.
That ghost thing on my computer screen when I know you are there, watching me. Maybe not watching me for real. But like I see you are there, somewhere sitting down watching me watch you. It's a synchronicity thing. It's a ghost thing. When your significant other self, that self you send out into the virtual sphere fucks with my mind. Like a ghost fuzzing, moisture gathers within my pupils. I imagine you in all your fantabulousness. Figure. Firmament. Fermentation. Fraction of your true self. This is your self possessed. Poisoning my senses with your particular poise for pretension. Pussitraction. Post Traumatic Sensual Domination.
Fiction. Friction. What is genius but the stranger in a strangeland. An environmentally conscious garbage collector. Iranian gastroenterologist. A Wittgenstein Mohammed. La langue d' Africains Cosmopolite. Interpreting Pirandello. Why American literature is a house before the housewarming. Burroughs without heroin. Hunter S. as a chaste Charmanda. Bukowski without the three vices.
A Mohawk walks into a bald men's shop. Getting away with murder is a foot fetishist working as pedicurist. A man named Lynch hogtying his lover. Harpooning an obese mermaid. Beseeched upon by two overweight lovers in a menage a trois. Paul Gauguin in Tahiti. Helmut Newton Carnal Brute. The female body as a murderous association. The Choker. Garter Belt. Ball Gag. Fuck machine. Belle de Jour. Brigitte Bardot in ... And God Created Woman.
Blue Velvet as a hyper eroticized cinematic version of a song by Prince. Darling Nikki era if and when before or at the time of the Black album.
Bob Dylan's Blonde on Blonde. Woody Allen's Stardust Memories. The American Walt Whitman. He stands tall in height, stature or regard for the masculine - the enchanted lover, wise beyond his years, of history he is dependent upon wit, joie de vivre, whitenest pride.
In the Irish James Joyce he lathers in a non pithy fleshing out love of etymology, like the adulterous massage, political love affair, sex on a cruise ship.
Oscar Wilde is self-bathing, latherous washing of skin. Flair with which one attempts a seduction.
Long embrace. Lament in a kiss.
Like a lover's post orgasm, leveling the intensity by hanging ten, grinding against the sexual cavity, waiving the arm in the air as if with a hat, a flag.
Thursday, March 24, 2016
Tarantino Wannabe Film starring a Girl named Tarantella
Boom Shack-a-lacka Boom Shack-a-lacka Boom! Base sounds. Hard rounds. Talking European football with a mess of a man. He sits upright like the Eiffel Tower. Drunk at end of bar is a Leaning Tower of Pisa. Come a Come a Camaraderie. Take a look at these London On and Offs glistening like Christmas lights. Was it the bitters in their gin/tonic. Or the pepperoni in the pizza. Half of one eye closed she has at the slice as with gritted teeth she pulls at the Parmesan. The topping with cheese and tomato sauce drips onto the table floating over the bartender's concoction. This is not a Sunday night. This-is-a-how-the-hell-did-I-end-up-here-kind-of-night-before-Monday-morning-when-I'll-be-expected-to-be-showered-and-groomed-suit and tied-holding-office-on-the-fortieth-floor-of-a-building-mid-town-where-the-cab-drivers-drive-sarcastically and the-hot-dogs-taste-rubbery. Robbery. He walks in sawed off shotgun. Arms up in the air! Arms up in the air! Turn the music off! Turn the music off! He don't like mariachi. Or was that Joe Strummer and the Mescalaros. Pimp Pomp Adore! It-would-be-much-easier-making-money-off-a-would-be-has-been-never-really-made-it-but-he or is-that-she-comes-around-opens-up-a-tab-gets-wasted-sits-there-singing-along-to-the-jukebox-cat-calling-strangers-until-closing-time. He throws a potato sack at Harry and orders him fill it up with cash. I'm almost expecting Lucy to sashay over to this speck of a man run her hand around his shoulder say something Luciferian coming from a chick of course, "Looks like you haven't been laid in a while. Why don't you come over to my end of the squat and make like we've known each other for a long, long time." Not Lucy she's shitting bricks. So Harry does the thing he was told to do. He tosses the bag at the man. He makes a nice catch, fires a shot in the air and like a cat makes a dash out the door. Somebody must have texted 911 'cause out of nowhere we hear sirens as someone yells, "FREEZE!" Balls to the wall they'll tattoo his face against the bricks, handcuff him, stick him in the back seat off to penitentiary. As for the money I say a round of drinks for everyone. A hard one for Tarantella. I want to get her drunk unload my junk in her trunk. Whiskey Sour and lime for me. I am liberated, inebriated, cash diamonds in my pocket. I'll thumb her neck until three then I'll tap my teeth on her wrist. It'll be time to go put the rubber to the road. If I can't see maybe it's dark and I got on my darkies. Tom Cruise in Risky Business. Life is risky. She's my business. Tonight I'll make it like in the movies. You know some choreographed Nijinsky shit. Les Russes! She smells of vodka. I am liberated, inebriated, cash diamonds in my pocket.
No New Jimmy Choos
Andre Leon Talley, Pardon moi Monsieur, introduce me to that country place of Von Herrs, White Sugar Daddys. Tonight I speak French. Tonight I call up Vincent. We smooth talk hood negresses. Hit up NYC kitchen cupboard queens of underground literati for colloquialism. Like a cocksure East Village Jesus in a Hugo Boss working on a dissertation. We'll turn the Fuck You's into Parlez-Vous. Tall boys in order. Perhaps a shot of Alibaba. Burn smoke into this. It was branding before the white girls got funny about all this got sleeve tattoos and clit rings. Shamama, psychic-kill! Facial exfoliation turning Yoruba housewives into Nollywood Barbarellas. Bronxville flat of a Latino film critic. The fellas get with the others talk New York politics, German Expressionism. I sell them nude portraits of an Italian house sitter. Go where the girls go Iko! Iko! Your NO WAVE, New Wave trend-setting got me noticed. I became Isaac from Bukom. Subliminal Afro technique. Blonde girls doing cartwheels in Harlem shyster basement drug dens. T'is the citizen from Le Frak cut-creating the rewrites for his soon to be urban crime detective novel. Some say love is dead. What do you know about sex you never been a Guy/Gal Friday. You never sold sex to a puppetress, one hand inside her Buddhist husband, the other jerking off a parliamentarian. In the hot decade I god-swiped cafeteria girls from their mothers impressed them with my knowledge of Burt Bacharach. You say Liberace I say La Cucaracha. Some nights she prefers Cosi Fan Tutti Frutti. I like Black Coffee in Bed. Listening to Delphine Blue on WBAI. I make mixed tapes for my love girl. Black appropriation. Even the Polish girls talk honey into me. Brooklyn orgies where the dee-jay plays Johnny Cash hands out condoms covered with graffiti. This is not Anti-Folk. This is country come to Ludlow. This is not Antietam. These are dead bodies dumped into the East River. Candelabra! Candelabra! Dinner with art girls at Shakespeare's Fulcrum. Tomorrow it's Kostabi's kitchen. When they waltzed us all out of our rent-controlled it wasn't with a gun to our head. We got the message. Whatever happened to Kate Spade? No new Jimmy Choos. You'll celebrate your birthday tonight dancing barefoot, pedicured and manicured drinking mimosa with a Brazilian model. Cheers, Ambrosia! Here's to Balthazar Getty! Here's to James Spader! Here's to all them white boys who made your little negra ass bounce.