Black Rain

Spring Sessions III 50 x 70 cm acrylic/spraypaint on paper

BLACK RAIN (PERSEPHONE)

Black rain drilling little holes

clean through self-esteem on this

totally fucked January twilit

day making us feel at least                                 

50 % dumber and uglier than we

do in summer. Half the world is online, the

other half dreaming of the right content—  

it might be naked wet bodies smacking

into each other, or tea ceremony demo

by a Japanese monk. Lady de Winter

offers you a toxic joint. You refuse but

sadly, with reluctance, a touch resentful

of your own rejection of reckless liberty. Has courage   

shriveled up and crawled back to its itsy-bitsy cubicle

or is sound judgement making a half-assed comeback?

And how much of this means anything

or fits in the plan as such? There is

one crucial indisputable but subliminal

suspicion: that no one, anywhere, at anytime

gives a damn if Earth’s daughter returns or not.

It’s as if my physician, shaking his head, says

I have great news for you, Kenneth, but I couldn’t care less.

And now for something completely different

Wucherung - Growth 50 x 40 cm

CHAOS THEORY

The corner of a tarpaulin torn free by the wind.

A coastline of toothy fractals along which   

our dreams are assessed by a man with a tidy beard.

The fact that we know who made us and why. Our certainty, its thorns.

If only nerves could be covered by indestructible  

implants fashioned from a substance not subject

to import duties. Think of the turnover. Think of the

corner of a tarpaulin torn free by the wind, and what’s hiding beneath it.

Meanwhile a gorgeous volcano

is on the verge of eruption: Mina Filona, the

precocious virtuoso: her tantrum

midst the tangle of a cumbersome fugue.

And the commentator, crawling out from

beneath the wind-torn tarpaulin, says

” Nothing will ever be the same again.”

The Rite of Spring - Stravinsky

San Francisco Symphony Orchestra

conducted by Michael Tilson Thomas