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like
dancing
about
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music |
words about art
by adam williams
have a few creative words about an artist you
enjoy, or maybe even hate?
now welcoming
submissions in this vien.
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Family Of Saltimbanques
(a painting by Picasso)
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Rainer Maria Rilke once spoke
and so do I now
of the family of Saltimbanques
but in this case there are no
Thread born carpets
only seas of sad
Bodies and a little bit of Spain,
floating in the wake
of war
and modern art
Derivative of youth
and encompassed
Browns
The sand echoes from the ground
and sky
The three men Calling
"we will find a way."
while the children
looking back into greener
fields, (not less frightening)
contrast to Lady D'orsay
"we can not go back."
Sitting down
Innocence
Fades into the earth.
yet the fields are not
In that space: a little bit of Paris.
And these clowns,
and these artisans,
are left gazing into the sky
of Spain
Grouped in together in a circle. |
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Of The Metamophosis of Narcissus"
a painting (1937) by Salvador Dali
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Solid Shadows of permeated
cliffs, egg in hand,
reflections going on forever and ever
in murky water swell
The atmosphere is scathed
with nuclear fallout
mushroom clouds
holding the narcissus
dangling between
chaos and controlled
order.
beyond the black oil
angry cliff, and the blessed damned; Naked
confused as to what is done in orgies
like scavenging dogs
always hungry for the declining breed.
Above the tartan
dream a dais holds both
a preacher and prostitute
perched
in self admiration. Narcissus
in the forefront
the metal abysmal insects
tear at flesh
of the hand
fingering the sky
becoming a flower.
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untitled painting
by Chief
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[Poetry that makes no sense]
Hello?
she asked me Into lines of swearing off
my mother by scissors Clemente's
cutting. Into cacoons of mourning
fish bliss
this skull of adreniline pumped
through apperition and the ghoul like devils
Come in nightmares. falling off with
lace and trim from sex behind the closet
hello. I replied in finding her a shut leafed
coffin with red silk covering the wound.
Sometimes I know not if I am a man or
monster. |
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[The divided city of apes]
The live wired king enters his court
turns and faces the charged as
Judge, Jury and executioner.
" Ah black man, bull, oh devil Indian.
come and bow /cross the heart
it's opened to a life (more meaningful)
it's a life less felt we call it kingly,
you call it white
What should I do with the land
nature walker? Should I give it back
to the ones I fed on. throw the sand
back to the rivers?
When I can call it home. My throne?
look to the future they shall sit
and pray to me. Call me saviour.
Son of Conscience.
But what should I pay you? when I can
stone the livestock and brand the dirt
with blood? Chain you as a servant
painted. Trade you to Christie's for some
food.
Auction your life, sell the children
Clone the genius. Martyred Hope
on a rod of pestilence and greed."
The old shamman looks back.
He sees the stars of his grandfathers'
heritage. He looks to the ground and
weaps for what he has become.
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untitled painting
by Chief
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Cy Twombly
clash and burn the white on city like a canvas cloth on wind
with words spilt on walls instead of questions
the first of surrounding prison walls that bend
densely
folding inside in.
Pour the paint on lightly (orange tint) swirl a crusted crush of oil.
Smooth obituary. Numbers of the streets
Cleanse the words the world wore badly and curse
the day it said my name.
Scribble, ah so gently.
Twombly
still is lightyears away.
And ahead
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Untitled
(Yellow Tar and Feathers)
acrylic, oilstick, paper collage
and feathers on masonite 96x90 in.
1982
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Jean Michel Basquiat (him got some flow)
it's a drag out fist fight washed up machine dryer.
free wheeling hard dealing scene, hanging on a wire
yellow ocean screams bleed twombly seams
nightmares for dreams. Dubuffet skull Thumbpull leaches
hold a balance Andy Warhol, everyone is king of a
something or another, slur a word try another.
Wish I had a Son or a brother in my heart or armed
guards of the Slum
burns me. True voice of a Gutter.
Bum and a creep.
Drums with Miles, and Charlie Parker.
cum in one girl after another
things will feel a whole lot better sooner than a'later
bags of heroine, looks like harlem nights with globe trotters.
some more birds of a feather
always flock apart together
like a blurb of paint a scared up Just disposed
Juxtaposed martyr.
They call one a star
denied a mother.
Just a stain and a legend.
Untitled
(Yellow Tar and Feathers) |
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negative zero
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