Surrealist gesture

The key stings the lock.

Over-stepping my bounds. Assuming too much. Lying to myself; completely out of touch. I need to fade away, I need to disappear. I’ve been reaching for years; still nowhere near.

            There is reality in pain… a sadness in nature, a mystery that frightens me. I want the notes to hit themselves in perfect unison, open up a whole aural world, aesthetic and complete. I want the paint to spread and cover all the negative space on its own accord, I demand a perfect composition within the bounds of the frame it reports to.

Can the hand that strokes the keys on the calculator be the same hand that strokes the brush across the canvas? Can the hand that sends text messages over a cell-phone be the same hand that pens a novel? Do we even control our hands? Have they been hypnotized to complete an absurd and superfluous set of motions on cold, sterile and impersonal merchandise?

Please, if there could be one unified theme drawn from all the turmoil within this book, let it be this one inalienable fact: Truth is buried in metaphor, truth cowers behind sophistry, truth is hidden in plain sight. All we have to do is decide… all we have to do is believe, act and give up on the ridiculous and false urges that have been bred into all of us. Throw away everything if you ever want to have anything. Break the remotes, the commercials, the stores, the lies. Rise out of your recliners, scrub the makeup from your eyes, shoot your televisions, rip up your magazines, turn off the radio and look straight up. Reality, life.

Clouds, sky, earth, space… time.

Sine qua non: I do understand the ache, and it is immediately hard to focus. But it must be confronted, all must be considered. Only with an absolute refusal and an immaculate faith will everything slowly take on true shapes. The terror, the tears, the death of all things, stained a doleful black; perfectly obscene. The silence that permeates everything you know really matters, the still life of ancient truths. We want it all, all defined, black, white and red. Plenty of red. Facing necessary dreams, suffering the true nightmares through that thin membrane. The disagreeable, translucent fascia of biotic tissue betraying your apparitions of normalcy.

I wish to grant a voice to the voiceless, all the insignificant pieces, large, booming sounds. Grand sweeping gestures, exaggerated for this small and terribly lit stage. Audience: “We want passionate birth, blood, reality, corruption and pornography. Obscenities sung through sugary pop songs. We want an ending wrapping around onto itself, something faultlessly explained, tied in a bow and hung on the fourth wall“. “You can never scare me“! I volley back in their generalized direction. “A gradual failure, which is what we have all become“! I decide to add, at almost the last second. Much more an act of will than of inspiration. The agility of a razor rupturing flesh, the unique color, sound… taste. A life full of puppets, alcohol, drugs, needs… wants. Hundreds of strange self-deceptions, all containing their expert version of reality. Oh how we suffer, brushing all that came before us aside…vomit, puke, shit, mud, etc. Hush, history will not die.

So the mirror is broken,

but what do the shards reflect?