Room 2013 ART 2















                  

   A Psychoanalysis of Time

                                   





             
                                                                           



The fire of the purple of the yellow of the future storm of You in the pulsating globula of the burnous terrible into the rich red of the Fast–Fourier brain storm transform, square to infinite instant: ovidly ovulate continuous modulate and opulently orgulous: the endless black-yellow the writhing sines, the cable test, and the screams beyond Munch or munch the waving micros red-purplous fire and again the rich red explosive of all beginning things and all endings; (the joy of) the unpossible blues, the sentient mauve, the moving stasis, the brain stem, the twins, the “exploding rainbows and ‘the old “burn bombs”’ of all and the flammis flammae expectorate let me go man (Christ big car and always talking) & the eating eating eating times green zero is lit with light where nothing is true explained by examined numbers is false whose falsetto dolce the petrol love the dove not right (in The Tower) and the gravvy brown, the spreading green differentials sea of blood and deep dreams sharkly as we “blink and scream and write” it scranches to (a) halt and; and espy ; and; and descant - the very dogs - at “mine own” me bark…I’m determined. To. Be.

You, The Watcher, again in your cave. Platoed platted and potatoted, not knowing but never concluding the Socratic or circling circle. Life? “No, no, never shalt thou know.” This all I know Jesus this blood one thing never never failed me yet I know yet for yet he yet blood love failed me yet so…over and over purple and clover we loved It, it came form nowhere…and yet all is known in and into the Fantastic Flame and what the dance of electrons called and caused singing in the dawn when ions to ions made marvelous the magnetic muse. Clouds. Pineal and basal yet unfinal as the huge Waltz of the universe washes us in good gold molten when Time laughs. Who are you?

…am yet…I cannot …………think…..in this noise…

Enigma green. The mirror. Let me go. Let my people. Let the bastards sneeze. Ha!

We too are here in this hell of ecstasy.(Wrinkled). (Shadow.) We are endless in the pump of absence, the dance to presence and the gyraticulator…We had bethought of Nietzsche, Kant and Bach, or the Bus Driver, the Truck Man, and the dreamer in the Accountancy Tower.

…light roars    ..."Grim faced war hath smoothed..."           …time seizes itself

…the Pollock explosion – too beautiful The Mystery endless lines, the rage of form, formless, into “this breathing world”, the shiver of colour, the dark, the endless frenzy




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                                        [NOTE - the following image is meant to be upside down. Blogger automatically inverts to make it "correct" it, thus spoiling this part of my project.]                                       

        

  Yes?

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As the red Boly Blob of the molten sun sinks by the brown tree where the sea it sizzles and the night roars old Jaws. It was the sixty billionth sunset, significant as black moltens and hissing tongs. The red tongue is as wide as God and the Book of day is snapped back like a bible made of steel and engraved with centuries of human thought that are So many ancient recipes for Whispers that flap and creak inside the whisper's whisper: so soft, that The Old Giant leans his ear to the torn the earth-tormented head his old mate with Mark that's dead so long and dark.

  The truck of night crashes into the Car of day, and rolls, bringing down the Power Poles of the cities' nerves into an inferno of bubbling blood, and images unrid of a vast Monk, a Buddha, burning the century's love into A black writhe of flesh. We blink and scream and write, but Hell sticks to us in green evil chunks of the Cremated Children We could have loved.


  So it's gone now, and we shall sit in the silver silence of this shadow, while I retale you my story.

  -A story! A story !

  -Yes: it was yes in far dangle time of faery lands folorn. Long glanged they, they stared up yes, petrific, against the socket mountain where babbles the old and fiery clouds of steam and blood,

  -Did gargan the pan in the clod of me and my brother's bread?

  -No, no: Never we heaved but a coal hand of bond strangled the strange.

  -Did not want they the free and the frei?

  -No no and nay. The night fell in gangles of nerves, but they saw only solid shapes and soldiers with rectangles.

  -Did not the fierce fire, or that Eye, huge as a balloon, who is the sky - all the spermy songs and and reds and blues and days of yellow splash? Did not the mangle - who haunts about thy shape - want, or the maze, amazed, fabulate with fire, the rich brown, the smooth nut, the cool?

   -Never never cared they. Measured and made but not the prisoned, ravined screams, that never cease in night's night: to these they clung and clayed as we the clods of God do plod.    

   -Did not blaze they into the Red, the glang beyond glang, the burned nerve - bright bird - so suddenly undead? Did not they?

   -Aye no, not they: far too farsome far and blue, in cold right right rightness they were as fierce as spears

   - and this went Right and that went Left.

   -But the Gogos!  The Gogos!

   -Nay ny no - never -

   -Wherewhenhowwhenwhen?

   -Went they?

   - Into the caves of the mouths the gulphs of corrects who computed the digits dancing into the song not sung. And the sun heaved heart in hell of the black tars of boils and pots of hots. Yet vermillion, and strange and yellow the scene.

  -Screamed they?

  -Nay. Yes - but many come and go we know in the soft blue his head, and on his hands we'll never know.

  Yet the Reich was high, and spears purple above, shone in a new orange we had never seen.

  -Dreamdangled they, or ever shook the sharp afar, the clawed night, the perished fish: light for gasping?

  -No, nay, never a day. 'Twas sockets and steel in the ancient way in the heave of lust; where bolts rained down, extruded, great gobbles, and terrible the Made.

  -But who in Money lay in the green or twisting of olive gone tree and Brain? Who?

  -Capped and covered but never known his fated fate, his snailing life a Trail we follow but bothly never took.

  -Twistly this into what White of scream fire you burn you Guest, and fear you eye?

  -Eye! Eye! Terrible the retch of yes and no - and who can ever tell? I'll sail thee: like four gold hands as big as booms down slapped they and churches squashed, and steeples, and the mousey men ran out of houses, dancing terror round like a bad bear.

  -Gedangly then the firely and wingly bedraggled banged while wept my love...Droorly in poor pauve the pain the painted pain, yet lost, yet lovelived.

  -Ah, but that was then and now great sparks do fire the twisting greenings.

  -Knew they?

  -Nay, never in wonder's wire did Dresden dream or terrible talons tear. Wise now are the eyes who are as blue as you in the singing vaults where the arches ache with graped joy, wrath gone, boned and wickedly white.

  -White?

  -White as long sung spilling light from time's singular bang and turn to today's night how it must be so.

  -And what waits?

  -Spidered thought is never still and why would you wish for webs of want to turn the lights of loving out?  Milk is the mother's moment, still, but never, never shall seas Arestful be. Yet, I must answer.

  -What be it shall it be?

  -Red blue green rings of Electrovelvic Time will dance on glass where eternal cities sleep, and never an eye peep out. Yet they shall riot loud and long who smash The Iron One.

  -But soft, soft, is the stilled sea: isolate, purplic, and always, always - alone.

 

   Have we not distorted space by this talking? Or, old as Gold, bent the mirror back? Who is the why and when does she come?


All are frozen, or swung back like a spun hoop, and all, every flickering pulse, all decisions, pain, leavings, meetings: all struck into polished and astonished stone. It struggles, but heavy hands hold, Merciless Mercy, who know the pain, and the dark double death twice chopped. Yet, we shrug, and laugh, and dig who would be yes.

 

   And then it was he dreamed that he was seized into a gesture, an about to be, and that I stood there, brush or baton or pen in hand: all Time rolling under me in a road of perfect light.

   There was nothing I could do - everything was closed: and all men, all women, turned their backs to me.

   And then terrible the psychotic silence, the invaginated, the Yellow. All this and these others, hanging there: noosed and cut off like words Crossed out - the strokes of Kings, the curled, the military command.


 All this, and so much that is speechless

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                                                 from 'Pale Fire' by Nabokov.







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                                               Images from Rodin's


                                       'The Burghers of Callais'



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