A tyrannical mass. Citizens traipsing around, trembling, outside under the dour of spearhead pillars stabbing God’s back as he sleeps on Mattress Universe.
The Cathedral, brutalist in schematics and built with pipeline silhouettes coated in aging cream stone. It stands powerful, a captain of the street like the surly Jersey crew kid spitting on the ground and judging as people pass by. The courthouse looms two blocks away in crying sunshine on Charlotte, while Judith stumbles in, nerves wrecked.
The alcoves indoors, after drudging hours past halyards to heaven hung on draping book covers lining the entrance with cold enthusiasm and promotion, are shallow as kiddie pools pissed in, and acidic to skin. The alcoves indoors, displaying in honor old cuts of carnelian rock proving portrait of saintly zombies in the barren dirt, piled on, smelly, and drenched in dissatisfaction of their representation as still and uncaring.
Passing by sculptures and artistic moldings there is seen the curved shallow of the half shell of Madonna while embracing Judith Holofernes. Judith, head in hand, one foot out in revolutionary step, step, like soldiers on Omaha beach are deeply trenched in worlds of bullets and broken glass. Judith’s left hand appealing to a silent clockmaker who has moved to new dynamic churning work.
Past pews of demi-gods and men and inversions with assholes, renters on mauve carpeted benches, muddled. The pews, lush with strains of mixed oak congregate in the front rows, silky wood, a brimming cherry, bloody from children and geriatrics who devote every ventricle to the word.
Heard are four year olds with lisps pattering lips to three fathers buried in their
dreams and playthings like families in backyard graves being towed to hell. Childish souls buried under drunken Latin aristocrat labels by idols, while they caw and shriek. Lambish hours spent rummaging through milk crates stacked in back offices looking for the glue, butterscotch, to apply to the growing pretzel manger.
The deadbeats grumble sewer level complaints about attire of teenagers from the oldest pew. Polo shirts with 1 button cinched, denim shorts, bracelets, shaggy hair, ignorant blood on shins as doobie joints crumple in their pockets. Sitting in the balconies plotting drug excursions or cigarette smoke in stairwells where they make out after youth group on Mondays.
Toddlers teetering with advance, approaching parents from diseased glass doors between broad idol statuettes, red still, hemoglobin silk draping the fame, an anatomy without skin membrane. Giggling out of chorus class, doors weighing more than their adult bloomed corpses could in obese glutty thrill, singing hymns without conscious when artistic shovels of strain knowledge linger cloudily above, hearing lyric, not smiling.
Wedged, neatly, solemnly, silently, middle aged thick eyebrow men focused in formal jealousy towards Priests speaking in unbroken stoicism to holy cretins in charge over the crest of sun, fiddling with nothing in crackling stars, and through them, splattering shit talk on the faces of contenders in the benches about unfinished faith business, relations, and sex that the children learn behind walls in the pigeon cage halfway house to God, unnoticed with hair touches and pink comparisons in the bathrooms after preschool recess.
Dust born from anvil heavy breaths, oversaturate the amber heavenhue windows, of the cathedral. Organized subjects in platoons extending towards the stage, a book, a stage where common theatrics are used to preach.
People die, and cast spells of resurrection without blood, just standing or squatting with nothing inside, but money in the offering, their sacrificial lamb, greenbacks, dead, like the whistling Andy Griffith God above. They only use the sun to highlight the stained glass depictions of God-men fulfilling the assorted holy oaths. The holy oaths, the holy oaths.
Stations/Colliders - Jacob van Loon
The editor at Never Lazy mentioned how much my work has developed since earlier this year — bringing the realization that I don’t review my work much after each piece is finished. Change doesn’t appear the same to me, especially when I’m working in series.
I DONT KNOW WHAT TO DO
In its dripping hands a perfect mirror.
In its blazing hands
Sixty million rays drink a sun
It’ll be the twitter for my true emotions I don’t want to actually admit on the internet like how I’m dying for attention from the one person that deals it out sparsely and randomly and I can’t detach.
DETACH CABLE DAK
CABLE DETACHED LUKE