Wednesday, 27 May 2009

Color Fool



Coming into my son's room the other day, I happened across this art object, on his bed. It made my heart sing(k). I reproduce it above, for you, dear reader, in an act of lyrical out-reaching.

Much love,
B.D.P.

PS: In other news, I am greatly looking forward to the immanent-critical visit of my cousin, Dieter B' Dolla, one of the world's four most gayngsta rappers. We will be collaborating on a nude song, provisionally entitled 'Stick it to the man comma man (Art Matters)'.

Tuesday, 26 May 2009

The Missionary Position: A Guest Post



In the first of what will is planned to be a 1,342-part series of guest contributions, I am proud to present a personal reminiscence, from guest poster Stanford Myfoot (to whom I am now reconciled, despite my previous intransingence; my words 'fuck stanford myfoot' were not an insult, but rather, a tribute to his renowned sexual prowess - indeed, I was instructing my wife so to do, as Eliot did with his (wife), to stanford, who then sublet her out to bertrand russell. hence the reason for her madness, at having to settle for bertrand into of stanford, and eliot's christianity, having been converted by the then-Christian stanford, whose cock was magnificently divine, a fine evangelical tool if ever there was one).

Her Lea's great grandfarter, what a great goy (he wasn't Jewish). Kindnapped all the tiny women of rural India during the Raj. Crushed the men single-handedly with the use of his bludnerbust, stamping on their tiny cities in the country. He made them britty women, and wrote 'little women' to legitimise them in western society.

Realising they weren't good for harem girls, he set them to work, in the country and the city, at Elstree, where he founded the first film studio so they could produce popular entertainments that made them seem normal-sized to their adoring public, filmed as they were against tiny sets, with tiny cameras. It was called 'britty wood', against which Roman Williams-Polanski wrote his protestatory polemic 'the country and the city'. it was mainly inspired by his sexual jealousy, for many of them, though of consenting age, resembled in their stature the 13-year olds he so adored.

Charmingly, my son has provided an illustration to accompany this most amusing, and informative post. It can be seen at the top of the post, like Simeon Stylites, who is artistic because I make he, and Browning, matter.




Monday, 25 May 2009

Art (Tatum) Matters


And he matters because I make him matter.

x O x O,

gossip guy (debord)

Thursday, 21 May 2009

A Differance of A pinion, Possibly Tragic in Nature


this is by my son potter de polla. it is art, and thus matters.
i've been telling him to take his beater blockers recently, but
he's been failing to do so because he loves me so much.
he wants to make art matter too, and follow in his father's
footsteps. he makes heart matter. he makes my heart matter.
ps. fuck stanford myfoot.
x Oh x -
Oh yeah,
When Staging a Play about the Holocaust,
Remember the
Performance Context, Goys.
Signed,
Kenneth Coke(head).

Friday, 3 April 2009

the sun, a yellow dwarf



note: this post is intended to be sung in my deep and sexually arousing voice, whilst in the wine cellar of king's co(l)le(rid)ge.

(i) see the sun sinking like a ship (that i need to right), like i right foundering dissertations - though of course the sun is not as important as the merest passing fancy that flits through the mind of man.

hey gal, let's make hay-gel when the sun shines (one of those passing fancies which are more important than the sun). [hay-gel: putting a paste of straw mixed with dung in your hair to keep your hair out of your eyes, and make you smell attractive (to country folk).]

sun-beating love,
beater

x 0 x 0

ps: the aroma of those truffles is really penetrating, but i am still not convinced that food is an aesthetic ex-pier-ee-ence. oh damn. i (w)rote that already. wine fuzzes mybrain.

the aroma of those truffles is really penetrating, but i am still not convinced that food is an aesthetic ex-pier-ee-ence.



this was a potentially compromising situation, in hindsight, but at the time it just felt right, drunk as i was, not only on all the wine from the cellars, but also on the sheer intoxicatory nature of life, and of course on my ability to make art matter, that near-magical gift of mine.


half-regretful love,


cassie nova.


x 0h x 0h


wine de day; or, whine of de de



i direct your attention to: 'Particular roles: Wine Steward'. pretentious? soi? certainly not: art matters more when i'm drunk, and nothing matters more than that. let me tell you a little mo(o)re about this roll/role and what it entails: the cod-ledges of boxford university, among which memphis is no exception, are renowned for their extensive cellarage and celery. that's what the whine wracks are made out of: structural(ist) celery. that's what makes the glass green. the celery is used for its 'weeping' properties; kept damp and dripping, so that the glass of the wine bottles is infused with its green.

drunkenly,
slurrer.

x ooo x ooo


(hehehehehehehe)