“A hundred years ago. Do you want to be doing the same thing they did one hundred years ago?”
“YOUR GOING TO HAVE TO SCREAM. I can't hear you from this far away. THERE IS TOO MUCH INTERFERENCE.” I grabbed his arm with both hands, running down to feel vaininess before fingers split.
“Shit fifty years ago I was a know it all cunt. Fuck man, singing shit like, no change for 20 fucking years. The world did not remain the same. I don't want to live another half decade, feeling the same way. I was saying, this time, THIS TIME last century, there was some crazy ideas running around minds, flavoured the hue of sprouting initiative medical epoch. What is the word I'm thinking? Ideas of adding syntax to thought process in the internet of their day, claiming the only way to be true, was to run in to a crowd with gun and clean out its barrel into all. A champion, loving the true essence of art, in that day. They were still fighting with the same old message. We naw fix nothing. He cites decades of men of letters, better or for worse, repeating the same thing. We don't listen. Not for centuries.”
“What message?”
“Him and his friend Raoul Housman, screaming when language becomes purified in the academy, ravaged and made baron through cocksuckery, one's true spirit is to take refuge among the children and the mad poets. DADA, and DON DATA.” He repeated to a beat sweet, I could feel ten times fastneasy. “Reverting to animals. Sound verse sign. Grunting only in vibration of everyday life. The evil showing their wish to rage out for control again and, they are going to force you to do it their way.”
“Do you want another one of these fuckers? I love the way your eyes are dancing?”
“That reminds me.”
“You didn't answer me? Reminds you of what?” Surrounding his arms, I nested ponderous.
“Fuck that swallow was hard. I tried to scream at this black haired pixie, but the artificial lump of gob, after I force it down, is shivering in my chest, before vibrating my toes. I am restraining the volume with another request to swallow. What the fuck is the deal with the English language? I trying to focus my eyes and grabbed her close.”
“Are you fucking narrating?” His eyes crossed dizzy.
“You remind me of a gang of women I collected the last time”, I love his dancing eyes, god. “I took my bow for a walk.”
“Bow Like, fuck?” My hands released, pocket scrawling. “What is that book called, the Zen in the Art of Archery?” I fall into him with the rushing under my skin. Teeth on a grind thinking, “This motherfucker, you sound crazy.”
“No arrows and I left the basket full of seeds at home.?” I bit his ear in questioning all the words he said. I didn't understand a one.
“Are they magic beans?” I pushed away holding on to all of him. “Oh no, I think its starting. You are hard to focus into? Did you say yes?”
“I always say yes to Giant's but never love, and drugs well, there is only one answer.” His mouth moved demented, as if he was going to chew off his lips, and his head followed palpitations in the rhythmical affirmative. “The gods keep repeating they are too powerfully evil. They are swelling again, in the same flex of one hundred years pasted.”
“Stop being stupid.” Words that got away from me, willingly I let them go. Popped two pills on the tip, pushing through lips, and cliched a movie stance. Project thinking, 'be brave'. He looked but I couldn't see blurry, until I could feel his lippy labial loveliness. What a cutie. He wasn't greedy. But they are both his. Tongue waggling I froze, still locked on.
“The gods must crazy?”
“You already said that?.” I manoeuvred round carefully, returning. Never letting go.
“I said a lot of things but everybody pretended not to hear me.” Then he ran in a quick with, “Shit them fer me?” And full face and juicy, he crashed into me. I bit him again.
“Biters are dangerous, but not you.” He returned to me, tapping the fingers on the small of my back, I found his ear, on a nibbling climb.
“Could you shoot this bow after the beans exploded?”
“Stop feeding the giant's, they're not stupid. They know what they're doing, and are religious. I hit the bow with a stick. She was blue and yellow and thank the gods, green deep. Blue and yellow carve a hive, war monger mind. At a Job I was given a dollar raise, five minutes after this other guy ran out. I was happy and worked hard. Only to be told a few weeks later that I should have got in writing. It was lies that felt like a kick in the nuts. Manipulated freeze suffering machinations of false energy crisis in the crushing of an enemy pipeline plan, was the cause of war profiting logistics. Why won't they open there eyes? Anyways, she was magically determined to collect people, like the modern day pedo pipper, queer Peter? Picking the infected peppers of young woman's eyes all extarted.” His fingers got more excited and I couldn't stop the grinding teeth. “Just like your own. She had HARDER, in letters, stamped here.” Slapping determined with one and voice rising, cupping full with the others tickling, I followed forward to seize behind, copied and greeted soft, with a gentle pulling because of the curious feeling of pee. Did he notice? He shook a wobbly head. “Debating before the night was through, with a brown girl named Anastasia Ambrosia.” Reassured I copped and caressed, ascending.
“Do you speak metaphorical or did she have a punching accent and, what were they debating?” He shook his hair wild again and wriggle his nose.
“No she said she was real. She looked Indian but represented Mexican. Which was odd and I don't get?
“What don't you get?” Down fingers releasing, I popped two, finding and replaced.
“How they look the same sometimes. Why are they confusing all of the story, with rock shock contradictions in opposite degrees of insanity? We're going to test a scenario a month before then we go live troop. A story for another time where was I?”
“She had HARDER tattoo on the small of her back, dancing eyes.” Watching eyes joyfully roll away loud, pursuing reminiscence, licking lips all greedy.
“Now one hundred years later they force people crazy, acting all surprised, blaming guns, when one shoots at everybody, from pain, and make it look like a simple case of fun. Surreal is the reality spinning all around we, in the illusionary idea of history repeating.”
“Was it conjuring or prognostication? Do you have to be careful in what you release into the ether? Like a burp. Growing uncontrolled, regurgitating forced elimination?” I embraced his twinkle, as I mimicked silent, the popping of his stutter.
“Purely premeditated pursuit of capital baby.” Before together close, we shivered. “Why in the UK are my brothers and sisters assigned crazy, in record numbers? Wow that was a good question. Why are they confusing children with the curiosity of their perversion, two years of porn hasn't fucked them enough? They are not asexual, there simply not mature. I'm not attracted to my peer group, no matter gender because, I am much too young and only watch stories of fucking daddy all locked up. Spiral eyed crazy pandemic con fighting prophylactic biology. Broken innocence grows to buy drugs. Nice one. You fucking cunts. That's why truth is illegal. She's all ugly in the intent. Why in the same way do I feel so angry? Is it in me? Or is it all some other's beings projections?”
“Oi knock that shit off, your right but, talk stop that shit NOW.” Agitated, I ignored the word stumble. “I know I know, their's a refusal to do what's right, so all follow a destructive strategist. Nothing but fright but, I wanna feel high with you.” Letgoletgoletgo, racing head round, but I didn't.
“Sorry sorry”, he closed his eyes, “I will try to be just all wrapped up in you and your wandering hands. Distract me. Sorry I don't mean to be running away.” I spun away, eyes feeling mischief, to his face impression of he can't help it, impossibly wide open reaching only fingertips.
“Maybe you want to harbour, I worn, in this state she's almost impossible, but if you wish please, than insist.” As if to yawn, he gave chase grasping delicately desperate, he didn't inhale.
“I couldn't if I tried, why lie and why oh why are your lips so irresistibly inviting?” As mine, closed eyes, found his smiling, in a spinning return. “Departure in waxing political, as the reverberation hesitations of tentacles trailing wake, is too much for my imagination incubate though. I fear with a shiver I might overflow. Rebounding purity of what life should be, or could be. I'm I really being corny?” I half spun again docking quick and with a wiggle, fully stretching four arms to cross. Rhythmic step, stop, repeat screaming,
“NO I AM FULLY LISTENING AND LOVING THE CONCERN IN YOUR HEART.” Electric timbers sprout outside, around inner ear crossing jaw and throat exposing neck awkward, still waggling secure ever stout form, from lip caressing whispers longing of words never caught but,
“Where are you leading me?”
“SOMEWHERES I CAN TRULY ABSORB YOUR ESSENCE AND NOT HAVE TO SHOUT.”
“I guess that's not RIDING SPEAKERS.” What a totally tantalizing idea but not today. Today I am only yours. “Madness, madness they call it madness. The song fits, I don't know if I like the paintings? They may have an ill effect.”
“If you sketch, simply fold into me.” And sinking a sneaky trip, we spiral fell into a bean bag chair perfect disguised as a catchers mitt, top landing with a bouncing butt. “Do you not like art?”
“I like art that disturbs. Churns in the chasms behind the mind of christian ideals normally, but not when I can feel my pancreas synthesizing?” He's eyes redoubling.
“Christ why?”
“Because,” and he yawned all ocular bulge focus, “they share the same cantankerous superiority of a drugless soul, criticizing magic worlds left unknown. Ensuring slavery in the fight to return to same. Crime moves forward sharp. Sin is a Zealot's guilty pleasure.”
“Hey. What'd I SAY.”
“What they perceive as order, 'repeating everybody else is doing it' so should I, with terror's sneer. Sorry sorry, TV's gone they have a no sense of future. All they want is normal. I'll stop.” Unbelievable, his timber tapered.
“I was never normal.”
“Normal never was, but how so?”
“I'm an Artist. I had to learn to say it with conviction. So I could live it. Plebeian motherfuckers just laugh and tell me to get a job.”
“You don't like working?” Hands finally found me.
“Too many sexual harassment pandas ignoring the laws.” Fuck, don't stop.
“I hear you. Hip hop on the radio's a problem for me. Life is about experimentation, in just saying that, most think that's queer.”
“You don't like hip hop?”
“I love a lot of it but, in makes for a hostile work environment. Or the people, I don't know?”
“I have an issue with all the fancy words used to extract reality to elevate a non objective life. I love watching these images. A creative mind screaming pure emotions. Can you feel the true sensibility running through these projections, spattered all over these walls?” Shock quaking pressure, fingering calfskin with stubborn clutch.
“If the entire purpose of abstraction's freedom, are there rules to formless dialogue? Building lawless painting, ignoring convention, is there anarchy in the denial, as a message? I mean, that is regulation? How does this change with pixel's ease?”
“The quality of Guillaume Appllinaire's rules, over a hundred years ago, advises me to ignore all the pixely tools. Smoothing keeps you from being razor. Planted in a vortex, as we enter nuclear refocus. Do you ever wonder the effect of firing waste into the sun?”
“Is it true she's a nuclear furnace?”
“My heroes stood in gigantic skepticism screaming 'believe, there's no objective basis of truth'. Because they are lying.” I imagined him smiling.
“Do you have to destroy for society to birth a new?”
“The reality of savage mind's control over narrative's growth, armed with a century of psychological innovation. The artist were witnessed to its rebirth, and ran within the subconscious spirit, opposed to the rampaging profiteering cementing world war two. Pure profit despite 80 percent taxes on Armour. Once a government trying to protect, no more. The works by the surrealist are above all, confessions of men obsessed and men who doubt. Andre Breton's words I love, You are right nothings has changed.”
“Hey now, I'm trying to stop.”
“Painting has always been a curious conflicted procedure following an explosion of emotion.” Flipping on flexors, I pounced into big eyes and inspired breathy smiles. “Directed with purpose, chasing a mission. Kill the general and the army starves. Do you think they're paintings, or are they doing Bobby Digital?” I slipped away again sinking.
“I don't know? I wonder if they came on strategy or, if they simply got off lost in the infinite options of tool playing?” I stretched over his chest and it extending a tremble. Was it me or was it him? “I am not entirely sure how my analytical mind is contending with trying to replace pure emotion with the ritual?”
“What ritual?”
“There had to be a ritual. Most are similar. Isn't that what you just said? Can you imagine instinctual formative deduction in reference of the reality of a militarized machine screaming for blood echoing over hundreds of years?” I looked up into his eyes all annoyed silly. “Jesus sorry, do you think there is an allegory to Robert Crumb's prophesying thick thighs?” Flickering lashes spied a lip licking, stocking a rippled lustre climb.
“No he's just a pervert. Do you think my thighs are thick?” Beat bouncing quick on smiley, he gave a wink, looking up and accentuation finger tipping, smooth and low.
“Him and me too baby. I always loved his wily ways, and his respect for pure blues. What about you?” Half moon face growing, as mine gnawing, two step twisty crawl was corrected disappointingly short.
“Yikes, soapbox not permitted, no?”
“What do you like the most?” Fervent hands enacted before he did.
“As yet, I don't know, but I hope it's your mind. All else will sprout and fester.”
“Your lying. Don't guys like stupid girls?”
“I don't care what boys like. Do you paint like this repeatedly spinning from wall to wall?” Sounds crossed slow, reverberating subtle inside, smooth repeated thump chasing somatosense echo. “I don't like noise for the sake of itself. Chaos in ignoring regulation for 'the future belongs to the working man', isn't art, is a con. I want to slap one who splatters acrylics on canvas with only direction of accumulating cash, I feel is absent filled only with shallow intent. Burning a painting, so the image last until power inevitably extinguishes? Its a gimmick. It's a sin. Like you said, these tickle inside.”
“With me, might not be the images.” He laterally quivered.
“Creation starts with two things repetition and gestures. But of abstraction, DADA would've ended this year. I think we need to spin their hostility for convention into clarity of novel innovation.”
“Disbelief in religion or moral principals and obligated laws, institutions, you're right this don't change. But then believe in what. How do you think new? How to find the millions of new videos, coming daily on youTube?”
“Fucking problem solving. The industrial revolution has created a bunch.”
“Monumental undertaking, who are blazing trails?” I started to think out loud. “Problem's, respect is profiled electric and spin it into the void of chaos. Something I was playing with, I don't know, is not enough?” On his chest I flipped accepted into cuddles, hands followed bass under skin. “In a nihilist mind, denying all existence, and you are right, there is an ugly assistance demanding sickness of body and mind, on all fronts. I find peace in these flowing colours. Strange, they calm a mind. Is there just too much to fix?”
“Well, that is what they wish plant in mind, and they will only mate more, if we are all locked in a meta-make-believe-verse.
“They are more than interesting. In witness they express monsters? I wish to ask of them can I stop thinking? Can I stop breathing? Can I arrest sleep until the mind manifests voices laughing about 'hahaha sucker you can not escape'? We had a tiny break, thirty years maybe, but peace brought anxiety to the war men. I call bullshit on psycho's not feeling anxiety. In these images, I see fiends. But I see demons on the news too. Could the lucid distraction be made permanent, if this is the real slumber? How do we wake up from the evil. Eyes watching always and everywhere, forever.” I spun on him, “Are you dreaming, can I easy your nightmare? Taking easy TV ways for a new society of watching was a mistake. Intended? Ignoring them only made them stronger.” I return ass to lap on a gentle, contemplative rock. “I liked their crazier ideas, the artists.” Startled palms returned smoothing, relaxed.
“I like that but, crazier like necromancy?” Bristles found hair and settled. “I must be. She's what we have now.
“They remind me about what has stumped about some Russian poetry.”
“Suprematism”, I mouthed with the beat, head motion three times in circles. “I didn't know?” Prints felt a forehead soft, blind.
“I don't. It was the same idea from abstractionism to combat obstructionism. Ciphering hundred year block culture crossing seeding sentiments, beyond space and time. Elusive alphabet that, how could I? I'm struck curious, they fought the same world of wars, in their own style. No verbs, crazy. Is there a syntactical freedom, missing in English, that allows for comprehension without movement? Is it feeble to attempt to express an idea with no action?” His touch return lower, but simmering deeper with regal flutters. “Is it just an aura preceding and following war, always? What does that reverberate? How far does it oscillate, this mandated muddiness?”
“War never stops. What were they arguing about?” I climb a little higher, to feel a little closer, as the boom's snap the bottom of me, out of the top of his legs.
“The same fight as now. Power on the climb, and ultra modernity clashed with socialist agenda, unwilling to transpose propaganda in the idea of deconstruction.” It felt good laughing, skin bubbling over his lap. I couldn't stop moving.
“Mister nihilist,” Head a shake. “Harder you were following, battling Ambrosia Anastasia about what?” Turning a deliberate slipping onto lips.
“I don't wanna say.” Mumbled a mouthful, contenting into effervescent nibbling. Touch, ricocheting magnetic synchronous reflexion dub dumping over silvery affections until consolidation's pandemonium.
“Whoa, oh no?” Eye's bugged, out then down calmed and elastic agitation over and round smiles return up twist shock, with a unexpected startled hop up. His hand I grabbed frantic, fingering palms, into an auto knuckle grope, worried but not.
“Do you feel that?” Ask to confused refocus on all threes.
“What, what?” Shivered smiling, looking to his lap and back.
“My battle cry at times like this.”
“Wait what?” But to make sure, I flipped his hand and cupped?
“Well?” More dancing bewilderment. Looking down, I flicked the tip sticking up, not expecting the girlish ruckus of laughing with a drop.
“What the hell is that?” He was shaking and rocking crazy. “My boy told of impossibilities.” He giggled, “Oh my god, I don't know, get up, GET UP.” Aqueous? His request? Dominantly kneeling over and shimmied pamperedly tough, racing the ride rinsing off and up. I slowly gestured forward, into full giddy reluctance, “NO NO NO don't touch me, crazy I can't take it. What's happening to me?” Laughing, hopping off the bean bag strong, with a whirling whine.
“Are you okay?” I asked carelessly, on a rascality ponder to make it worse?
“I don't know. I think so. Can you feel too great? Cause if so, damn. What the fuck.” Breathing determined, as I advanced shallow gesturing bodacious, and assured haptic hallucinational absurdities, a floppy head shake affirmed,
“Cool, I 'm fine.” Covetous eyes lingered quietly, “Where the hell were we?”
“Maybe we should dance? Palpitate with all these sensations, we need some water take my hand.” Grin impossible, “What are you still scared of me? He just shook his head yes, but acquiesce all hands lips, but that was it, butt sticking all the way out.
“Please, tell me some more of your war with art?”
“What about you poet soul, I'm idealing you contagious?” Contemplation of diving devilish.
“I don't know. I don't know. I can't believe what almost just happened. I swear I'm fine, I think.” I laughed,
“Just wait till then, forever ascending round up of rushing”, words falling into quaking complete encompassing capture.