Welcome to Little Prayers, the self-destructing gallery. Here for a good time not a long time. This week, we attend halo-headed parties.
Jonathan Richman - Int. Table Session in Orange and Blue
Birdsong falling, ash
leaves falling, the loudest sound
going round here: I am here,
hidden, what sweet,
narrow bend is summer,
an orb dancing through teal.
Imagine me
looking at you
looking at him
to lead you
through the night.
After the seatilt of punksweat on plaster and the basement has backdrafted the fire hydrant for pressure release and its steaming stars bobsled the night into a burr: glint shifting... the whole goddamn Aquarian armory plus a cone calcified in new skin on their skin and after they have tried at being more than friends and called it quits pan left-to-right
Lamplight: the futurist cross-section of sky.
across leaves into seclusion, the smokescreen a cross-section of that moon ruffled foliage, settle on a kitchen like a hanging garden that nobody knows, seventh wonder, seven friends (three convos) low commotion, push-in, curled notes, papers, arms, leaves, lips, moons, hours, the cool oak of perfect conversation, branches going nowhere, windows open and tinged with the iceglass erudition of love. 1am coffee why not, recital, pause, I'm happy for you. An inner-city Cypriot scuff, here? here. "This one is experimental" and hands over an espressomango(?) on ice all-burn remedy because we will solve the mind-body problem tonight, though what does "the skin is like a dotted line" even mean - like half hedgerow, half house? half a chord? drunkenness the cross-section of sleep + outrage, we the cross-section of body (child) + mind (man).
- Written by Caleb Carter
Anselm Kiefer - Epiphanies; or, How Everyone Stands Under His Own Dome of Heaven
I don't know who I'd be if I was someone else. It would be apocalyptic. I'd miss the memory of coarse sand nesting into my pores, a chaffed blanket stitched from sepia that suffocated me in hot summers, binding us as we'd melt and fuck and our hard bodies would press against the supple, soft brick of your house. I'd miss the relief of clouds passing over without rain, but being wetter with sweat than if they did. I'd miss the trees that carved shadows for us when the light stung my eyes and I welled up in arrears of sadnesses I never boxed out, or the way laughter felt, sharp and unexpected, after too many words and not enough understanding. I'd miss seeing babies learn how to do things for the first time, like the time I saw a baby first learn how to howl in tunnels for the applause of unfamiliar faces. I'd still hope for your breath on the curve of my neck, hot and uneven. More, I'd crave the sharp sting on my tongue as I licked the copper coil of lightbulbs as I'd lap at their glow in a sweet hunger for something more iridescent than the memories that only half-heartedly stick themselves to me (they are like old velcro in wet hot rain) — and other sapidities like the soft crunch of maggots under molars (they taste like wheat bix) or fire ants stuck to the roof of mouths (they taste like fire) or the pebbled texture of nettles (they taste like nothing), and sometimes I'm sure I'd even miss the sour moss that's grown on the walls of my open mouth since we last bit into each other (you taste like the ice left in your cup after draining the gin and tonic) — memories wasted on me because wouldn't they be of more use to someone else who could learn from my mistakes before they make the same themselves rather than me just reliving them over and over? Memories like licking up the ceramic plate off the floor because the mess of guilt was too much to step over without slicing deep into my heel, instead I just licked my lips as the dervishes of white porcelain danced across the tiles. There was a point where I would've preferred to be anyone else. But now I'd miss the sound of statements I don't believe in kicking in the air, and again I'd sweat, and again I'd well, and again I'd lick up the mess, and again I'd sink teeth into whatever flesh was willing, always chasing hard against soft and always chasing the vice and always chasing the versa. I'd never call grocery shopping a harvest so why would we call what we had anything more severe than time spent together? Still yet, I'd miss the sound of silence after arguments, as I'd suck the rust off old keys that never quite fit the locks we needed to open. Instead, I'd cleave them open and find splinters of all this clawing at every one of these hollow words which confuses italics for bold and emphasises all the wrong words: you'd better seal the door back up behind me because I don't want to kill myself, I only want to kill you who is me who is who.
- Written by Bryson Edward Howe
Anselm Kiefer - Albatross
Stopping me is easy. I get big painting nirodha - the mystical time cessation that a meditator experiences, directly translating to "extinction"
in which the long wind closes the door
in which the distance between question and order is a kind of "wh-hushh"
in which the colour of words must be uniform with fire
in which monuments ask the guards to leave on the nightlight (fire exit)
in which the wingspan of the woods greys at its edge
in which i dream of a dove dreaming of running through woods
& not flying not even once
You'd think that when an angel falls - given it has so far to fall and we are so far away from its falling - that it would fall slowly and that we would be able to track it with our pointing finger, like a six-legged bug dozing or the sea tossing a tangerine (easypeel) or a mote of pollen coming home or thaw sign or sunbud - and that we would be able to say "look there's the cavitation of heaven" (google sonoluminescence) - and that given all of this, if we kept one eye winked on it and started jogging backwards then we could probably keep it in the same spot forever and ever.
in which im so busy dreaming i forget that even in fire-words green means go
- Written by Caleb Carter
Sara Winkler - silver jewelerry visionn
All these random little things happening, like, they're there, but they don't line up, you know? I can see them, but not, like, connected. Do they even connect? Like, are they even separate things? Or nah? Life's all just one long thing — this one big moment, right? But what I remember, are like, all these tiny moments, little moments, not one big thing. It's kind of weird. But also kinda nice? Like, this confusion, but also peace, somehow.
Mate, please, can I just--
All these beats, like music, right? They're separate, but they blend, and it's smooth, like, one thing. One big thing. And we're all in it. Like a crowd at a gig, all these people, these individuals, but together we make it, make this one big thing, flowing. And I guess, realising that? That's something holy, maybe?
I don't know, can I just have my lighter back?
It's all light, and fingers brushing, arms wide open, everything shining. But no words. Just faces and looks, you know?
Please.
- Written by Bryson Edward Howe
David Lynch - Twin Peaks: The Return, Episode 8
Recap: One murder, the book of revelations, no more telly tonight!! now this. The squinted tropic of vague lights, like lunchtime, cloudy, on my way, and remember…
In the scree-cloth ziggurat of a cold Los Alamos… Each soul is a meteorite of a distinctly mottled pause. In black cardiomegaly, these petrified hearts ached everything changes but the past. No surprises there: the most porous shapes in the museum were the most interesting, still radiating through certain cracks, in others dripping hot yellow goos of time, with ravines blown open in the shapes of how they had loved, and teething stalactites in the shapes of how they hated.
On the centre plinth, at the back - the shout to the pyroclastic spheres' whisper - an obsidian box. The stonecold holy ark, an outline of pentecostal fire, deathless soul. A television, whose dust had settled in its gills so long it was like its static had matted into a fur coat of electric dementia. Cooper pedalled the big square button and it wheezed to life, coating the room in a carmine sabbath. He disappeared into the TV. His final thoughts were that The Landslide was Evil and his Flashlight was Good but was at a loss as to where that left him, somewhere between a conduit for the search and the search itself, so used his hail Mary to shout "FIX YR HEARTS OR DIE!!" Seemed to just about cover it.
"Got a light?"
God-of-light?
You'll find him, David, keep searching.
- Written by Caleb Carter
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