Henri Rousseau
My old friend has snuck up on me again; Jungle. Consumed in mists by his waterfall.
Takes me to a grass hut village. Simple. Friendly. Women in grass skirts. Men making fire, sitting around. We go back to hang our feet in the river. Mingling antelope, moving like tranquilized teeny boppers.
"Tomorrow," he says, "I will show you the mountain from which our ancestors came down. They were children of many colors \yellow red blue/ w frizzled hair." As I listened to him speak the pink and orange leaves rustled above our heads and I was reminded of the validity of daydreams.
1. Mechanic still lifes, making love in a modernist kind of scramble. Ships running aground, regardless of the number of lighthouses, on Picasso's desperate breasts.
2. Cobblestone, wooden wheel, moustache, umbrella green, single, rains last night. Jesus Christ laying in the middle of the street, waiting for a fire engine to put out the leaping communal capitalists, consuming the entire house.
3. We woke up suddenly in the midst of an acid party, the smoke from your cigarette came out in cubist bubbles. "Fuck! I can't even smell your filthy coat anymore," even after all those nights of sleeping in dumpsters. ICBM's and rotting Iraqi corpses. It's like we are all assclowns, and we know it and we like to show it.
From closer, the mountain appears purple, green, and brown. We are busy debating the level of blasphemy when dusk falls like shit from an airplane. My friend has gone back to his trees. It is not as I had expected. Beauty with overuse and resentment.
Takes me to a grass hut village. Simple. Friendly. Women in grass skirts. Men making fire, sitting around. We go back to hang our feet in the river. Mingling antelope, moving like tranquilized teeny boppers.
"Tomorrow," he says, "I will show you the mountain from which our ancestors came down. They were children of many colors \yellow red blue/ w frizzled hair." As I listened to him speak the pink and orange leaves rustled above our heads and I was reminded of the validity of daydreams.
1. Mechanic still lifes, making love in a modernist kind of scramble. Ships running aground, regardless of the number of lighthouses, on Picasso's desperate breasts.
2. Cobblestone, wooden wheel, moustache, umbrella green, single, rains last night. Jesus Christ laying in the middle of the street, waiting for a fire engine to put out the leaping communal capitalists, consuming the entire house.
3. We woke up suddenly in the midst of an acid party, the smoke from your cigarette came out in cubist bubbles. "Fuck! I can't even smell your filthy coat anymore," even after all those nights of sleeping in dumpsters. ICBM's and rotting Iraqi corpses. It's like we are all assclowns, and we know it and we like to show it.
From closer, the mountain appears purple, green, and brown. We are busy debating the level of blasphemy when dusk falls like shit from an airplane. My friend has gone back to his trees. It is not as I had expected. Beauty with overuse and resentment.
posted by Rolling Peter at 11:54 AM
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