When things die we realize what they once were,
One ring of smoke pulsating in space
One moon hanging in the air of a stuffy night on the cusp of nothing
Trash collectors screamlaugh like demons behind the rusting black gate over the rumble of
their V8s over their hand-soldered Cumbia FM radio, riding the tendrilled cloud of curdled
milk and mildew beer and rainsoaked oil spattered cardboard, rotting in the sunlight
This arid mudpatch once birthed amphibianism
Now we trample orchids dilated flinching under explosions curled fetal digging shallow
holes, hands clinched, pants-pissing screaming power-hungry control-mad sunburning on
the dented roof of an old desert Audi
Our moment might soon be over
I want to lose myself forever in a sublime haze of loud distracting life-affirming anything
A shaky pistol emerging from a shadow
Dogs disappear out windows
Forceful sliding glass doors guillotining tails off of common lizards
Boiled grey meat, recreational banging, awaiting final bipedal opi
Draw an x over the vein on your temple with a black marker
A deep scar scraped into the lateral line of your Led Zeppelin red convertible, Mardi Gras
beads asunder, the taste of collegiate decadence propelling our tongues
A bag of orange rocks shattered into crude clay sludge
Lost without our stupid thin and self-reflective technology in the suffocating bearhug of
nature’s icy indifference, crying, frozen, desperate phonecalls to Mom go to voicemail
No theatre, no lights, a thing was and is now not, against rationality, comprehensive, inert
Also there is no way to know things until we learn them
Things like the slow lunging beauty of nighttime, glistening, revealing itself thin and rich
and layered like the veiny tonality of bat wings
The lèse-majesté of the horizon, the sunset
Every pore is a temple!
What are we even scared of?
Clumped in a flesh heap in the bottom of a mud covered shower expelling ions
An edge of foam between wet and dry sand where the base of all life forms.
A frothy smelly mustard perfect line, where the means and ends of our bones and hopes
are picked apart by crustaceans
What are we waiting for?
Text by Andrew Birk.
Monia Ben Hamouda & Michele Gabriele - It won’t only kill you, it will hurt the whole time you’re dying
OJ Art Space, May 20 - June 10