Week 8: White – A Colour Waiting To Be Painted On

Silence. He was blankly staring at the wall. The still fine film of dust was gently covering everything in the room. The knocked over coffee table, the overturned bed, the battered paintings hanging lopsided. The carpet swollen and motionless. Emotionless the neon light flickered. Cold, staleness, sterility of action and thought, drive…There was no sound, the deafening roar of silence was all-consuming. He didn’t move, he was looking down upon the girl. Her position, her hands, her hair, her tits, her legs spread at a peculiar angle, her ankles, her livid face, her stomach, her fingers, fingernails, her ears and her piercings. Skin pierced, split by some needle, metal that spikes, cold metal that pricks, metal that separates skin from skin, severs the bond of our bodies. Stillness. Lack of movement. Lack.

Week 5:The Waves

The checkered pattern of the slabs reflected the light, bouncing into peculiar angles from the straight white walls. The low buzz of the neon lights fluctuated into a sort of electric heartbeat. The corridor was long and each wall mirrored the other, symmetry, shape, reflection, pure geometry woven into the fabric of this reality, right angles, parallels, tangents. Metric footfall, light enough not to make an echo but present enough to engage with the sterile soundscape. Soft green-ish boots with a fine fur trim, neon green stalkings covered by a black skirt, opaque and smooth. The shirt was also black fitted in an almost organic manner, the buttons were also atomic green. She wore her hair short and unkempt, she wore fine rimmed glasses, she wore no jewelery, she wore a discreet perfume of faint musk and traces of amber, she knocked.

“Come in” came a low but kind voice.

Week 4:Three part

1.

For me, for you, forbidden

For that, I try to forget

For me, forever, forsaken.

2.

For us to transmute

To transgress, to transcend

Trod, trekked, trespassed.

3.

From this to that

We bind we break.

From our own borders banished.

Week 3: Walls

Churches are built with stones of constitution, brothels with bricks of religion,

Mortar water soiled hands, my labor, my prayer, the need for vertical limits.

Limitless vertical horizon, growth, food food food food nourishment growth

To do, to be done, to be done with to do, to be doing with within, being.

Upon, step by step on top of each other, liquid into solid to hold to bind

Bound in holding, bound to hold together reaching, grasping a tighter clasp.

Geometry, the triangle, geometry the square, the line the lead, geometry the point

Circle

Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage,

Words sentences to be unfurled to trace to layer to pave to make to cobble

Rising structured emotion top to bottom perfect symmetry lines lines lines

Swirl curve bend they puncture and confirm and parallel and intersect and be

Just be by being they are one singularity which has forgotten the meaning of plurality

More the lesser out or in the middle of all shapes potential entropy

The dance of shapes the thoughts the words the sounds the lines the whole

Circle

Tall

Wrapping

Enclosing

Shunting out

Cutting off

Sealing in

To climb

To break

To dig

Seige Seige Seige

Circle

Week 2: The Weakend

I am addicted to this sort of thing, to the silent streets of a Friday evening littered with half eaten pieces of food, colorful chocolate wrappers discarded, smoldering cigarette buds, you get the picture. It’s something in the way that expectation creeps up on you, even though it should know better. Expectation and experience have a sick love hate relationship with each other, like the master that beats his dog regularly and the poor dumb fuck always comes back for more wagging his tail. Like in that time interval, when the pain of the blows was dissipating, somehow something changed, but it didn’t, it doesn’t and we need to stop our incessant wagging of our tails, it makes us look not only foolish but dumb altogether. I could never get around the fact that even though expectation is battered, tattered tearing at the seems with past experience, it never fails to show up. And you pop another piece of gum and start chewing the feeling away as if it don’t matter. We have seen this all before and we know the drill, it’s the same weekend over and over again, but what if? What if this one is going to have a different outcome? Bullshit! The “what if” is a mental fuck up! It’s our own private way of diluting ourselves in believing that this night is worth a shot, taking down the banners and keep away signs of experience and banging our heads up against the padded walls of our own denial happily gulping down our own bullshit and being pleased all the while. Rotting away the last remnants of lucid thinking…