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Hell Is Other Paintings
16 x 20 in.
Oil on Canvas
2008
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Artist Statement
As I limped into my own life, clothes torn, resolve
Battered and bleeding at the edge of the mouth, I nonetheless felt compelled to ask,
“Can I wear your finger skin like gloves?”
Drips of calcium-rich water fell from stalactites. The cave was damp
Enough to preserve the rich overabundance of life indefinitely.
“Fine, but only if you let me hold your hand as we wade, chest deep in the
Green muck.” Pause. “Sure. What the fuck?
Here in the dark it is all you can do to make the wading less lonely. Here
In this swallowed pool of spittle, resting as still as a non-relative universe
Jettisoned carelessly into the void with the flick of a wrist.
Kiss me.”
Lifting myself above the waters surface as best I could, I proceeded to do just that,
Mentioning in the process,
Not without a certain self-satisfied awareness of the theatricality
Of our lot, that the pain, O the pain, the
Pain was all that separated us from the lower forms of life,
Quizzically dashing about our knees,
Restlessly projecting two seconds into the future at all times. The
Sudden impact upon the nothingness of a rock wall.
The unparalleled neediness of a life without eyes
Under a ceiling of moist earth.
Variations on this theme
Will inevitably double back upon themselves to view themselves without eyes,
Xenology of the exotic familiarity of Selfhood.
“Youth is the first indicator of decay,” you spit through grimy teeth,
Zarathustra and his songs balancing like spinning plates in the backs of our minds.
Contact
babyswans@hotmail.com
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