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Lumus -> RE: Arrrrrrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhhhhh! (10/1/2007 8:01:52 PM)
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*subjects e01n to poetry...if you care to call it that*
White…pure, holy, virginal;
endless and unyielding,
a prison of pristine sterility
swallowed in light
until everything else is washed away;
the senses break,
all colour embraced, erased,
savaged and broken down…
only white survives.
A perfect, tormenting bliss
Violent to the imperfect mind
that relates instead to pain,
and the steady crushing grief
of its imperfect surroundings
which are comforting,
familiar:
stagnant, stale tastes;
cloying scents;
raw, dull aches;
mechanical hums, clicks, beeps;
and reflections –
especially of itself.
Reality hates perfection.
An artist is a cleverly disguised god
who is confronted with white
and stains it,
maims and pollutes it
with slashes of black,
a regurgitation of emotions,
colour,
and morbid thoughts
so divine
that all others stop and stare;
they gaze upon the artist's
successful rape of the white,
and they judge –
applaud, despise.
Notice.
Art is not beauty. It destroys beauty,
and we welcome its hammering blow.
Wrote this a while ago while getting frustrated at staring at an empty white space, knowing I had words to put in it and not having them readily at hand... [:'(]
[/writer's whore moment]
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