Sounds ; it, ale , ill, Deep, d-3p. j. the fea, folemn part
in a great degree
to darken Deéply, Deep, ad in a high degree, forrowfully / the Cold
felt on collect- ing even warm Air with a Fan, or in
a ptinted flieet to fzt a fla” upon., to frnijh / the
bringing fore the fire. / as its beauti. fire fl:lir~bl”;7.in,.!
“He’s changed!” said Grandpa Joe, peering down through the glass wall of the elevator. “He used to be fat! Now he’s thin as straw.” Grandpa Joe on Augustus after the pipe, Roald Dahl Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
All they saw, “thin as straw” Augustus who
once was not. Boy almost boiled inside
a chocolate pot, consumed post fudge room
before the change. Chocolate liquefied
The following composition was inspired by the singular amulet included in this video/cover art and has survived since the seventeenth century. When Damien first came across an image of this amulet, he was transfixed by its story and beauty and knew that he had to find some way of making a ‘story’ about it. Damien hopes that it reflects his love for his Jewish and Daoist philosophy, Eastern and Western merged together. Rain, lakes, waterfalls, submerge into chaotic noise, along with the modern world of tornado sirens, childhood memories on the television, and typing essays before midnight during a rainstorm. The piece can go on as a loop, just as the amulet does so in of itself. We step into the forest to escape the modern word or record its beauty, so we don’t forget it when we’re back in our shell of a capitalistic hellhole. We put one foot back into the home and are submerged with technology, chores, activities, daily prayers, etc. Then there is both, the middle, the none. Somewhere among the noise, we hope that this piece, like a Talisman, gives you a glimmer of that mirror.
Continue reading “A Talisman for the Rivers of Eden By Zke”
Tarot in Pandemic – 28 March 2020
Sustain me today, Tarot, with
your Ace of Cups.
To raise me out of the murky depths,
she sent me a dove,
and a chalice.
She held me, as one does the wind,
futilely.
Continue reading “Tarot in Pandemic, a series of poems by Joseph Ellison Brockway”
Small, childish hands of a small, childish body. And its childish legs stood on the ledge of a grey, concrete obelisk. Big, adult clothing was hung around and hugged its body. Slithered its hands and small, childish fingers out of the long, snake-like sleeve with two needles. Threw one over the ledge and punctured the young meat of its finger with the other. In from one and out from the other end. Sew the fabric of reality into itself.
It inhaled the measured, sonic existence of the concrete forest. After its hand came out when it reached into its pocket, the weird, long, white, plastic strand of earphones was hanging from its fingers and small, cute nails.
Continue reading “OUTSIDE WORLD – A Multimedia Art Project by Noise Weaver”
Museum of Impending Death
1
Trying to focus on what feels meaningful to me in this moment.
Trying not to let my own thoughts reside inside nothing but impending death.
Trying not to let my own thoughts reside inside this giant nihilistic
ever expanding sky filled with rising numbers of dead stars.
Brimming with stark contrasts, alternating currents
between freaked out, productive, freaked out,
creative, wondering if I’m going to die from this.
If I’m going to melt down inside this ongoing vortex.
Thousands of broken wings get sucked into numbers,
spiral down, crack into the ground, vanish.
Thunder in the sky sounds like gurgling blood,
getting closer until I shake and cover my ears.
Trying to place my own impending death inside another poem
filled with words instead of numbers. Cerulean blue instead of red.
Continue reading “Three Poems by Juliet Cook”
For we cannot define everything & must begin somewhere. The atoms whirl about, a picture forms. A hole that is no longer bottomless, contemplation of which, carrying the first sky, falling(mouthless)upon the first watcher…
Continue reading “VAMPYR by Louis Armand – an excerpt from a novel-in-progress”
mode time of anonymity music disillusion she’s owned 0 secret clone cyberoctave my rest storage they assure the mirrorstorm outerfeel placenta constellation and the exciting constellation eye of the apparent dream your baby’s eyeballs into your womb babel into the blue desert to the desert reverse movement of a comfortable inhabitant of childhood mirrors in space… hell external hell i was occupying is moved to gimmick suspension was placed because what was intended was a barbarian maze of cell breaks that was longer than the male blood breathing into the zone bar_unknown demon had a causal soul storage of sorrow is why its cellular circulation is hosted by the night corpse of the wolf’s embryo::: she’s a chaos from its host
Continue reading “Mirrorstorm by Kenji Siratori”
Before you call yourself a womanchild,
you fly to New York City, college girl
costumed to be defiled, pigtailed, beguiled
before a bedtime story, too. A whirl-
wind trip in which he will present to you
Red, topsy-turvy, Riding Hood one night, Continue reading “Womannotated – Underneath”
The part of me that speaks, the part that obeys
Two chambers evolved from the annulled flashes of the Fall of Man
The soul divided
Swallowed by Hades and released from Pandora’s box,
A bicameral chasm in whose stream I am in want of understanding,
in whose dream life and death reflect the infinite.
In the song of sex desire implodes, decimated by numbers representing
Eros in his transmutation:
The number 2, Himeros and his sirens poised above lovers exquisitely
born from the rhythm of an infallible truth
and 7, a point of light revealing impressions of the Thanatos apparition:
The Temporal Spirit
The Other
The Conflicted Duad
The days flow like Mayan vibration without the grace of pleasure
or the wisdom of prophecy.
The essence of my thought feasts on the demeanor of death
My lineage traipsing a fold in transmission, and without pause,
actualizing conception.
Riddled by the vileness of cadenced blood, Karma takes to the air
but never speaks of the wind or whispers
to the scattered hallowed lands.
Its ascension, an appropriation of desire unraveling in the object desire:
A temple of opium flesh that has returned from a past life less spent
coloring the veils of the daughters of a lost Horus elemental.
They come by night from the thighs of spirit;
from the line of dream melded to the shadowless woman’s breast;
from occult spells draped across deflowered contracted continents. Continue reading “The Song of Sex, by Arthur David Spota”
New era rising
New species forming
Death on the streets
Life underground
Mass quarantine
Virus spreading
Misinformation as plague
Plague as tragedy
Tragedy as farce another farce another farce but this is real
This is real the people say
Hyperreal
Global warfare
Lock up your opinions
Redefine your ego but pretend it’s not there
It’s the Dark Age of Aquarius Continue reading “The Dark Age of Aquarius, by Rachel Haywire”
The light came from nowhere and went nowhere,
Glorious white washed away every color
Annihilating the monotonous blue from the sky
Momentary blindness,
Then darkness spread its wings
And shrouded the world in night
Past and future
And the universe behind my eyes,
All which once was dark
Shall be penetrated by unfiltered light,
The Chariot arrives
Pulled by the horizon, Continue reading “Ode to Violence, by Antonius Wilhelm”
In the contemporary art world, it is apparent that art suffers from a perpetual crisis of meaning. Since the collapse of great cultural signifiers, the role of the artist is no longer seen as being at the forefront of revealing truth or informing culture. Rather, artists are the ones rummaging among the ruins, picking at and scavenging dead cultural signifiers, or kicking them aside to pursue a course of pure unencumbered self-exploration, only one that is stultified and cemented-in by reified identity-categories; but to what end or final terminal point does art itself reach when the symbols shatter? It is a certain attribute of the postmodern age that art, from its creation, display and execution, is anything at all which can be seen through the aesthetic lens. If art is everything then (like Arthur Danto suggestion) it is simultaneous nothing. So where does this leave the questions that drive headlong into the heart of existence itself, such as the nature of death, love, sexuality and metaphysics?
In spite of the denials and scoffing of the dower, cynical and chic nihilist art world, that metaphysical element of existence itself is the linchpin from which we can even think about the two primarily lurid fascinations contemporary art is fixated on, that being sexuality and death. So why is metaphysics, the ecstasies and haecceities of religion, the terrible and precarious beauty of belief in the wake of the absolute so glaringly absent in contemporary art? Perhaps the spiritual never left the art world, but was forced to take on numerous, inverted and even covert forms. it is also apparent that the nature of the Feminine itself is also another subject of obsession in the work of art, which brings us to our main topic of exploration, the once forgotten (but recently revived) works of Ana Mendieta; Cuban born performance, sculpture and instillation artist who worked in Iowa and then New York (till her tragic, untimely and notorious end allegedly at the hands of her artist husband Carl Andre), Mendieta embodied the postmodern artist at once in search of not only identity and expressions of the feminine, but the ritualistic and mystical. Hence Through a review of her famed Silueta or “silhouette” series, we shall discover a deep aesthetic meditation on not only sex and death, but a revival of the spiritual in postmodern art. We shall also cautiously venture away from the insipid and ubiquitous interpretation of her work through the lens of contemporary identity politics, and instead focus squarely on the spiritual elements of her oeuvre. Continue reading “Burnt Flowers Fallen: Sex, Death and Postmodern Re-Sanctification of the Feminine in Ana Mendieta’s Silueta Series (1973–1980), by Giovanni Pennacchietti”
Shh, stop. Morality is about stopping yourself, I can’t hide behind a golden mask and say I’m from New Orleans, a hurricane could come tomorrow or your California could burn, we’re spectacularly doomed, kiss me, what’s the point of not –
The whole planet is rupturing rapturously, glaciers are water and summer is snow, rain comes with no rhythm, wildfires go at random, a game we’re playing now, with nature showing us who will always win. Did lay out highways endlessly stretching like a vulva giving birth did it make us happy to be always giving birth to something new and something fast and something chrome and something fast did it make us happy to show the trees that this planet belonged to us? Yes, power made us happy, isn’t that what killed us, all this happy, so much happy that we couldn’t stop?
We could turn off the air conditioners, learn to love the water’s temperature and keep it clear. We could turn off the heaters, warm up close to one another. We could turn off everything, we could stop. Love is knowing when to stop.
I want to look at you but I like your eyes hot on my back. When I know you’re ready to beg me for relief, I turn.
“Did you miss me?” you ask, a crack in your voice.
“It doesn’t really work like that.”
“But we can still…” you start.
“Don’t guess any of it,” I tell you. “Don’t wonder, don’t imagine, just…”
“How much time do you have?” Continue reading “Fire, Water, Ghost, by Sarah Neilson”
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 