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xanaxfarts

Claudio Bottero

faustique

i take the art of disappearing very seriously

charnel-grounds

Alfred Kubin (1877–1959)

Die tote Äbtissin (The Dead Abbess), c. 1903-04

from the book “Heimlicher Lebenstanz: Alfred Kubin und der Tod” by Andreas Geyer, 2005

source

starwarsgrl77

A part of me is missing

brotherorpheus

2:06 p.m.

as though some southern prophet

in their escape

with palms in holy gesture

parted a sea

of pine needles

those venous trails

daedalian

in their circuitry

seemed to swallow us

barefooted, wary

of fire ants,

earthen tells,

busied ruins, as dead and alive

as the shuttered storefronts

downtown, near the food bank

a patient creek we ran along

backyard dogs announcing us

as interlopers amid

their green-grass fiefdoms

underscored by the angry trills

of frogs we stalked along the bank

and a summer storm, a distant percussion

growing greedy and generous

in its wrath and its rain

children of june

racing sundown

as a gilded trail

that vanished into the storm drain

giving way to the inevitable nothing

as light must

your time in the service, you last stint

in county, all i know of you now

metamorphesque

"But there is a great advantage in the loneliness of suffering. What would happen if a man's face could adequately express his suffering, if his entire inner agony were objectified in his facial expression? Could we still communicate? Wouldn't we then cover our faces with our hands while talking? Life would really be impossible if the infinitude of feelings we harbor within ourselves were fully expressed in the lines of our faces. Nobody would dare look at himself in the mirror, because a grotesque, tragic image would mix in the contours of his face with stains and traces of blood, wounds which cannot be healed, and unstoppable streams of tears. I would experience a kind of voluptuous awe if I could see a volcano of blood, eruptions as red as fire and as burning as despair, burst into the midst of the comfortable and superficial harmony of everyday life, or if I could see all our hidden wounds open, making of us a bloody eruption forever. Only then would we truly understand and appreciate the advantage of loneliness, which silences our suffering and makes it inaccessible. The venom drawn out from suffering would be enough to poison the whole world in a bloody eruption, bursting out of the volcano of our being."

The Passion for the Absurd, E. M. Cioran (translated by Ilinca Zarifopol-Johnston)