the girl with the pearl earing. 2011.

What we have witnessed in our own time is the death of universities as centres of critique. Since Margaret Thatcher, the role of academia has been to service the status quo, not challenge it in the name of justice, tradition, imagination, human welfare, the free play of the mind or alternative visions of the future. … there is no university without humane inquiry, which means that universities and advanced capitalism are fundamentally incompatible. And the political implications of that run far deeper than the question of student fees.

an artist an its daughter.

The Glory Hole. site-specific inter-media work. Red Bird Gallery. 2010.

Untitled Duration. February 27, 2010. Red Bird Gallery. candy wrapping and give away.

Habitually, the majority awakes in a morning filled daze. Within a few to thirty minutes, multiple stimulants, hallucinogens, downers and children will skew the first aroused realization of whatever newness had been discovered by the raising of an eyelid or two. Each three pin pointed needles warp and weft over one another up until a brand new security covers a blind horror of nothingness, the little spike of darkness in the air reminds of the one slice that can leave a pool of longing afterlife spilt and soaking up sugar coated memories that taste as sweet as experience. Shards of glass, they are everywhere now, overcrowded by plastic and simulated jars, boxes, suits, cars and drainage pipes, ferrying those leafy smudges of autumn that turn mud to green spring. They can cut your feet, so that you’ll leave a small trail of yourself along some path that wasn’t as new as it was yesterday, and older than the future plans seen on the most pristine of liquefied vision prosthetics. As opposed to worrying about a glassy ceiling, to scream non-sonically vocalized distributions of perceptual oddities, there’s a see-through floor that appears
as a new death with every step. It might come on quickly, or it might take a long time, but eventually you may discover yourself headfirst through a closed window -a looking glass- and with a bloody face and scratched eyes, something different will present itself, and it’ll be new till it’s old. Start over.

an
outlying many succumb
to an oblivion kept crystallized
for the arm-chair, better than
the wheel, paralyzed forms
reaching stranded lines
of flying mutants in winged,
ringing chimes above, shine
for the heaven within, late
lines given across a crooked
spineless, chasing its
autonomy across chiseled
wooden acronyms, likewise
the inside joke of tempered
bloody organs dressed in
biometric monitoring,
surveillance monkey above,
riding the streets in camera
lucida, melting single sames
to multi-strands of livened
reality, upped to anew heaven
worshipped like a path of
hairless nymphs, freshly waxed
and barren of life, this, the digging
wing of a slave’s martyred genitals,
peering into pools of reflected
incontinence.

something new and old

and blue and molded and

rotten through the core

of friendship bracelets,

they grow like trees in a fruit

laden forest outwards and

outside to the depths of

itself, lovely incidents, drunk

drugged overtly snug and smug

literal badgers digging wolves

and eyes of plentiful bounty

to tits and dick balls swinging

with age for to never is

to pay the price of

you’re ever nothingness and regret,

the smallest things

are the hardest things

are the worst in your mind,

they’ll creep up on you and rail your soul.

sucking you up into the nose

and bringing nothing to everything.

pain is in remorse to outcropping.

it’ll come to you.

bleeding through your silence,

and letting out convulsing,

heart attacks similar in smiles as they are in tears.

forget the rest and leave the best memories to chance.

wallace stevens.

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,

.
.
.
.

And in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.