My Sweet Valentine
Six different metallics,
silver, cobalt, copper hue –
piss jars of ethylene art sense –
viper blue, canary yellow, paliochrome orange –
aromatic flayed hood pattern scrambler
ephemeral.
Colors communicate with
mathematical precision,
a matrix model of emotive
stultification varied; the whole
invaded by the determinant;
Constipated sinus
roto-rooter chemical, a hazard –
nerve damage – huffer system
Blown away . . . nerve damage?
Multiple layers of subtlety,
a cosmic dance in art space;
courage expressed in crazy leaps
of tonal subset to cofactor noise – music –
defined by colored multiples, splashes, drips, runs,
and intricately celebrated strokes
of loving tenderness . . .
A logical tautology semantically woven
without regard for syntax.
Stultification not stultification becomes raw awareness . . .
by logical default.
I have a dream to see,
a hall, sculptural transcendence hewn
from young mountain flesh energy
cry rippling . . .
with integrity.
To whom do we owe gratitude?
In the end it gets easier but
Sub-self dynamics tells a limited tale.
There are the Others; one mustn’t
neglect the Others. The Others belong
to Self not self if a difference can be shown, maybe . . .
another self-supporting tautology
granted for the sake of mercy.
It’s all sublimated message from Outer to Inner;
experience justifies the lazy lie.
Masochism, schmasochism . . . I
cut for blood sport self-induced deliverance
for the Love of the Other;
the Universal Feminine aspect of Others
sub-divided categorically in true Matrix
fashion.
Telepathically words are impotent Eunuchs,
fat, whimpering, bloated, and useless in
straight connectivity psychic pressure –
the message interspecies –
and hounds cry . . .
I howl at the Moon like all other
cult members; Pagan Mother-worship
demonstrations ecstatic of secret communities.
Some secrets shall remain . . .
St. Stephen style.
Enlightenment is not for
faint of heart nor is artistic
endeavor. I have entities in my
head, a maelstrom of contradiction so I
cut,
puke,
shit,
but celibate I remain!
For certain they don’t belong
but I entertain with
wrath a deliverance . . .
I will not be held up by a goddamn dog!
Did I mention eggshell blue?
Baby food jars? I eat the food not the paint.
Butternut squash and infant formula
keep artists regular, on schedule;
robotic like encapsulated schematics
of internal wiring gone awry – a bird nest grounded
in love; Freud wouldn’t understand.
I work in the gutter but one can’t spell
gutter without gut. Bukowski knew:
“It takes endurance to be a drunk.”
In the end most all succumb to peace
postal style like circular horses in
latitudes of death screaming and swimming
against insurmountable mediocrity, a small taste of madness:
Sellout?
You live in a car parked on random streets for ten years and then call me a sellout.
Gibby Gabby, too much acid mixed with
philosophia punk rock Texas bourbon
style leads to nihilistic visions of suicide magic
beatnik dreams. Only the myths save the day.
In the end Oedipus is blinded by fate;
a certain testament to the presence of the Universal Other.
The fates lead those who will; those who won’t they drag.
Magenta? Magenta says so much with cadmium, medium hue,
I scream and cry and lick
pus filled scabbed over innards of
dumpsters just to remind the
craziest . . . I am crazier.
I eat trash because I’ve grown
accustomed to liking
daydream fever
hallucinations.
And this is reflected in rambling colors of
fumigated piss jar joviality.
Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.
—Wes Hansen