Where is the art?



In the caves... in the museums... in the churches?

N the mind...
N th' eye o' the beholder...
N the realm o' imagination...

Hmmm ... a spleen for a mind
beholding
my imagination?

in my pants... oh... no... wait... that's the partay....

but i *do* have art on my back....

So maybe the partay in my pants is just the gallery reception...

a reception in the Glutious Maximus perhaps...

Cmoin Vertigo show us your back side post your tat for us...

__________________________________________________

Body

Somebody

Somebody I could talk to

Not just any body but somebody I could love



Heart mind and soul

Bones muscle and teeth

Body

Geometry of a flower

Flowers in graves
Hyacinths and Knapweed

the tumbling sun
I stop and wish for a waterfall
leading eyes to my hands, sift the ecstasy of water
and wonder why words are wrong.

The Golden Mean shines down on us and grins

secretly,
underearth,
the cruelest elements linger
we stew the leaves and have soup.
That piece of a flower

The flowers keeping the world alive,
we are but blind voyeur's to the love of plants...
a styling stigma

for art's sake. Living for me.
for art's sake. Life for a lacework
there must be stone covering that heart
it will of living by and lose her face
there must be left with manuscripts
it will be left with someone's child
sleeping in winter just step in the waves,
will tell the straight and a lingering leaf

judgment stewing like a poet he saw.
Who ever though that... trees
the transient straightaway with an eyebrow
to the rose, with the family, to hit my heart
And where's my head and a grassy field
with my chest ripped open to its artless core
there is the cocoon hidden from the light
you will think it's worth the ecstasy of us
to the end remained

one leading from the girl,one from the stone
it hurts or bottle pouring genial camaraderie
or solitary bliss and listen as an ingrown eye,
painted on the streets and laughter...

wine-colored
flower-printed creature
of a string

The Voodoo Lily heats up
the flower burns, its desire hot.
but we must be careful of the bumble bees
aprovechado baseworking nectar robbers

The sweat smell seduces you to a sticky death
Decoy Nectarines recharging Pumpkin pollen
the good looking bud for preservation

first date,
captured
the only taste, forbidden,
yet I will reach for the apple.
spewing from a fallen branch
and other prophecies
from finding peace.

We will be cured or buried with our flowers.

So does art history start with the flowers picked and put on a grave?

Why iz tragic beauty sooo appealing?

It's the horrilbe thing that we can't get our eyes away from the sadness that fills our hearts.

These are the things that art helps us to deal with, Flowers help with the smell, also give us a symbol into which we can focus our greiving, as the fertility idol gives us a symbol to focus our dreams realized in the child.

Is art the dream realized, or the dream itself?

Sonicgoo wrote:It's the horrilbe thing that we can't get our eyes away from the sadness that fills our hearts.

These are the things that art helps us to deal with, Flowers help with the smell, also give us a symbol into which we can focus our greiving, as the fertility idol gives us a symbol to focus our dreams realized in the child.

Is art the dream realized, or the dream itself?

This one reminds me of horned gramma, for reasons better left unknown.

Carne Altrui

I took a walk out in the rain
were lollipops and candy canes would melt
I had a lengthy talk with a train
you never know how far the will go
you have check at the depot

The ghost of raindrops
mimic my steps
as I amble down brattle
and curse the cabs

"Cabbie we'd rather walk huddled in the door with all of the Raindodgs" Tom Waits

The Tories fight me off
and I sing into the night
while looking over my shoulder
for Whitman or Agee...

The Generals bridge the night
waiting for heaven and regaining their strength
the endless reverie
prayers, escape...

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” Psalm 23

Confusion fell in my heart at the edge of town.
at the seams and vapor-turbaned steeple,
Now strength of the soldier's tread is nothing
but the wandering stars.

What hurts the long dim, to my hour come?
Dreamer of glittering flame and Wisdom Hell
and other flesh
Carne Altrui

the night in decay,