Each month, write a new collection.
Jackson Pollock's Autumn RhythmWith a drip, and a drizzlePollock flows in his artworkin his mind, dreaming of abstract designAs we dance to the rhythmwith streams of blacks and browns like he understood the painting to become his visionThe patchwork dripsand the melody rendition he paints the catastrophicfolds in a gentle arrayreminiscent of his formas we know not what to believe, yet we know littlebeyond the painmen have enduredEgo performed in the light we see assuffering of manlonging to freethe insanity of the abstract into a realityof the darkened mindAs we hold on to whatis real like Jackson Pollocksaw in the reversed fielda better side than what is normalHe could see the obverse angle the thread of paincausing the blend of suffering like the changes of the world as we are outside looking ingazing at the dripsand the drizzles
Daryl, fantastic. I think this is my favorite of your collection this month!
I feel all this thought and movement too, thanks Daryl, for the translation.
Wild confusionIs this lifeHardship and HateCurtain shadow storiesSecrets thatCircleRun jump and lieSwim fast or dieDrones shooting byMoney always dryUnderneathHer eye.She was an artistWho knocked on your doorNurtured, enduredUnlocked turmoilMelded giftsFree.Her collage Angling shapesMisunderstood Your drops flyingFind the goodReality obverseAt last converseIn peace.
LifeSometimes creeping in the shadowsother times screaming from mountain topssometimes clean and freshother times dark and full of filthsometimes straight and narrowother times as crooked as the devil's spinesometimes easy on the eyesother times too painful to watchsometimes filled with mysteryother times so obvious it hurtssometimes it makes perfect senseother times it makes no sense at allsometimes you wish it would all endother times you pray for five more minutessometimes you are the dancersometimes you are the floorsometimes you backseat driveother times... you sit back and enjoy the ride
There's something Jackson-Pollock-ish about this. Love it!
This is a bit different. I love Pollock, I haven't quite found a way to balance out my opinion of him with how much I love Lee Krasner's work. On Lee Krasner, Brushwork and Contact, CourageAssault on the Solar Plexus 1961there is no lossof objectthe dimensions of the artwork have changedex-changed themselves for the worldbut this paint has always hunger-looked at you, objecthang-stretched between two scapulawho owns youa blown mast, belly, mastiffand her wind-knucklescurled tight palm strike the intersectionbetween: ribs, lower lungs, and the intestinalthe black oilarterial spray transfer to your wife beatenshirt—you viewer youcanvas youobject: Objectif you can forcethe wordsout—there are no abstractions, onlybad rhetorical chargethe waythere is no povertybut for the holderof the twice spent paycheckthere is a taste to debt to melonball boonesfarm: barnyou loom over the flat on their backstretched hugeskin—with a stick, turkey baster, brush—the whipwhich never touches youconcretely leaves its markinterweave layers of the autognomic auto eroticuntil the world lowers herselfinto your uneducated mouthfor you who claim you are free.Porcelain 1955 smear humanexcremental brown bird-shit while streaking—and through the holesin this, rotting flesha glimpse ofthigh, blueescapeevery stockinged legcaulked and canvassedspackled but the lighton the nearly concreteescapesentire villages come off the pogrom—and your iron drunkenfenderof your car—I put the miracle in your mouthshown glinty smile the worldsridges thrown by the great hydrogen ventthis ether-tableof a daybreak without a you. Imperative 1976each gash eachveecloses options for the viewerverticalsections collapse industriesmunitionsfactories a salvo of horse-men it is difficult not to sensemovementas time measures your eyeleapthrough each plane a different land-scapechariots pulled by business-men falling from burningtowersa single heel, red, stiletto culled—bird-strike blood caught in the wing-root of a lear-jetwe of beak of dangledfootthere is no depthno timeand the horizontalplane swinging closed in the alligatorveeneck line caughtbetween the cleavage of time and desireinto the vertiginous plummet lookupor be sickon your way downthere are upliftscubist figurations gesturing for youto riseand look these closuresthese dislocations thesereductionsof figuresof soylent courage release you back to yourselfin time, they lifteach diagonal slash along a colortipped planean index of reflectionlook back again through your auspex of picket fencesand circling picketlineswe all self-sentineldis-integratedthis central, this centered delta, firebird among grave kneelingsuper-structures.Rise.
Love that man. It's hard to write about these guys, but you did so and well!
Jackson Pollock Autumn RhythmI see itno, this alludes mecan't see fall
Brains are not hard andsliceable like on TV. They are ajumble like spaghetti with saucecovered by the dense tendrils of darkness drizzled over a spent future.It’s a mess that forever camouflages the playful lightness of our dreams and activities in the years before you shot yourself in my living room.