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: