3 years ago

A Society of Artists

A Society of Artists

The storm’s

The storm’s coming.There won’t be a storm.The air’s wet.Just a bone we’ve been thrown. There won’t be a storm, just that noise.Get the canvases in.Do it yourself. Waste your time.We need your help, just do it, you can hear that thunder getting louder.God forbid those fucking stillborns drown.What?Nothing. Let’s get them in.The canvases are the final form of the torture crucifix, a special iconheld close to the dying muscle of the heart that reminds us how much us kidslove the things that cause us grief, and madness, and the daily jaunt to theend of the rope. We’re hunchbacks rope-walking, and this storm, this wet thingfor which we hope to either drown us or bless us, this wet thing may just makethat rope heavy enough to fall across our necks.Third time I’ve sighed today.Cusser is what would be called white trash in the old days of vigor.Can’t tell now. Everyone’s some wandering garbage. He doesn’t have any teethand his kidneys are failing. He can’t drink his piss because it’s brown andthick. I think each weed in Mouth’s Cradle has some ailment. Darkie’s blind toeverything but the barest plane of color. Cuntmouth has arthritis: herbrustrokes are quaking unrestrained streaks. I may have a mental disease, butwho here can say their state of mind is clean?First came here, entered the Cradle, I cried whenever I talked tosomeone. Not before. Kept a nonchalance at hand. After. I’d be reminded peoplecare too much when you’re the last faces they’ll see. They relay all theirmoods to you. Eventually they stop having moods at the same time you entermental menopause, then the days become a spluttering stain of a pâté and theblaring quotidian sights replace the memories you had of trees and laughingchildren and sex.Bleeding in the sink is a better fate than this. Kissed goodnight by astoned mother ripping her body to shreds. No monoxide to gas us. Just locked inthis wide cage, biding and biding and painting the static dead desert pastoral.I carry the canvases to the tents. Pieces entitled: Blonde Hashish, forthe sand horizon, and Babilu for the sunrise, and Jamwine is composed ofDarkie’s Braille pointilism, and Lesous’ satire encompasses a pure beige canvastitled Fauna. I don’t recognise the work of anyone else. Extending yourself

into the final stretches of a social life is babystep work, and too much is toomuch. I don’t want to know all these people. Not these mindless beautifulcopies of me.The sky is fathering a storm after all. Ecce homo. Getting out of hisunreachable bed with a morning bone, readying to splatter the infertile earth.Only makes it harder to think yourself lucky. Rain used to mean life. This rainis a perversion: blisters the ground, paves the way for dust storms, washessand over the ever thinning line of grass from which we draw our water, and,exhausted, that water is a biting commodity. Mouth’s Cradle eats lizard,Mouth’s Cradle drinks from its own yard. I can’t explain how it’s still alive.Keep on keeping on.About a hundred people live here. I feel like it’s only a handful. Mostof the residents scare me. They’re lost, absolutely lost, and while I sharethis flat Ark, I know we’re going to die. They don’t even realise it. Weweren’t meant to live like this. The world shuddered our buildings off, gassedour enslaved livestock, burned our children, and the succubus met the incubusand they made their love in the strands of our being, and so were born thebundles of flesh. I remember the hospitals and the television stations, mothersrunning through downtown with their discolored newborns. Everything was soyoung then. A decrepit maturity has crept onto our surroundings. A horn blowsthe wind, a stir to every poison sea so far from us, and a magnifying glasspowers the sun, and a fear powers us kids, keeps us from resigning to theinevitable.My fourth sigh today.I wish there were deformed bawling monsters roaming this wasted excusefor land. I wouldn’t be so lucky, though, too lucky to be eaten. Just have tosigh my breath into the stillborn wind, sigh until it’s all gone and I fallatop every other corpse living peaceably in the mouth of an extinction. I envythe fish who shed their skin and made the seas turn black, I envy the prophetswho spoke to burning bushes, to be so lucky to have a purpose more than waitingto become the earth.__It is night.Father is the color of a pansy. He eyes his kids with a wide cocked eye.Mother lets us rest on her back one more time. She could kill us off with asimple convulsion, deny us breakfast and the daily bread of dew.The pansy is blemished with the radial gloss of stars. Witnesses safe intheir cradles. No one else is out here. The few who would bother to paint this

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