In this blog we will share with you our vision of beauty, balance, harmony.

As Mark Leach writes in his book Raw Colour with Pastels: “Sound is all around us, and it is musicians who refine that sound into something of beauty. As a painter, I have always felt that my purpose is to craft colour in a similar way, to see through the confusion and seek harmony and beauty.”

And we add: Words, fragments of sentences, spoken noise is all around us, and Ken arranges words in such a way as to capture beauty in the accidental, the ambient soundtrack of life.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Inner Pig Dog

In einem gelben Wald - In a yellow Wood 40 x 40 cm acryl painting by Karin Goeppert





INNERER SCHWEINEHUND:

which means “inner pig dog” in good English.
Now, everybody has an inner pig dog
and this creature is a mongrel breed
part couch potato, part psychopath,
part sexual pervert, part greedy slob
of abysmally disgusting, insatiable appetites,
selfish, let’s everyone down, always late—
fucker’s never there when you need him— 
doesn’t replace the TP roll, has desires so dark
it would be better not to shine a light on them.
When it wags its barbed tail and snorts and scratches
at your insides you might be tempted to open up
and let the inner pig dog out for a romp. A child has
dropped a banknote on the sidewalk in front of you
and hasn’t noticed and your IPD is salivating at the
thought of all the curry sausages with French fries
soaked in sauce you can buy with the child’s money, 
the porn videos, case of beer, terminally stupid tabloid  
you roll up and stick in your back pocket, the riveting
conversation with a tattooed bar slut after toasting
in a sun studio cylinder for twenty minutes coming
out the color of a Florida orange. We all have
those primary IPD moments in our lives: such as the time
I was boxing Roy Slicker in his back yard; poor Roy, helpless,
more a pusher than a puncher, came in swinging with all
the ferocity of a girl scout insisting you buy her cookies,
eyes closed, exposed, and I slammed the side
of his head with a haymaker of a counter-punch
even though I could have just danced away. Worse,
I’d pretended I was in trouble, leaning
back against a tree trunk, seeming to
cover up, thus inviting his futile attack.
Somewhere hot, the Demiurge, talent scout
in love with unfair fights, exploitation, all the imbalances
and excesses hard-wired into violent turbulent life,
put a pencil tip to his lips, chuckled, then made an entry
in his Black Ledger. I was on the team now, rising in the depth chart.
Meanwhile, I bent over Roy and fanned him with the Chronicle
sports section, worried, but not knowing my first K.O. was also my last.  





Black Dog - Led Zeppelin

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