“Poetry leads to the same place as all forms of eroticism — to the blending and fusion of separate objects. It leads us to eternity, it leads us to death, and through death to continuity. Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea.”
― Georges Bataille, Erotism: Death and Sensuality
I civ everything I experience into an imagination chamber where everything is churned into the metaphorical and symbolic, distilled in the mental gut, transformed into a holy vulgarity.
I place the vulgarity inside the painting and while unable to live, it cannot die, and so it takes its place amongst the gods, undead ghoul of creation, poltergeist, swarms of amorphous metaphors attempting to address a host of issues: extinction, global warming, disaster, life in the simulacra, the death of myth, the bliss of color and pattern, of weather, of seasons, of light, of matter and time itself!
Looking up I see an infinite space expanding in front of me and I am shattered.
Looking ahead I see the human world and all of its politic, gods, violence, viscera, and love.
Looking down I see primordial sop resting beneath mutant toes.
When I close my eyes I realize that I am a confederation of single cell beings collaborating to create an imaginary antechamber filled with undead gods begging the future living for an audience.
When I open my eyes I witness a shadow of a painting and it will become a thing that lives on the life of others like a vampire, a subway fare machine, a long line, a syringe.