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Mateuš Conrad May 2016
all i'm saying is that the tetragrammaton was lying about in full view, an umbrella on the train; the tetragrammaton was just there for the taking, in english... and no jew noticed it, or picked it up.

poetic proliferance comes at a price designated the role
of anti-oratory - imagination and memory
are scattered narratives, thought the prime of the three,
an animal is bombarded  with sensual impressions,
a feline pet is the ultimate unit of fighting against
this constant bombardment  of sensual impressions,
before us, the ultimate leisure  activity, albeit without us
actual engaging in it personally; we created such utensils
as memory and imagination to counter-act the vacuum
of unnecessarily narrating a sunset and a sunrise, a comet's
flight. pro life interference - a snake shedding its skin, e.g.
non-oratory, even anti, poetry for bookshelves, for dust,
migraines, moths and bookworm larvae;
for shrapnel ego... for stances in aesthetics like:
run DMC's *it's like that
, countered
with... 'and i thought disco polo was bad.'
cheap thrills, scribbles on toilet paper,
marquis de sade made an inkwell from
his wrist, blood on white:
Boabdil gives the Granada key to Ferdinand and Isabella
v. kazimir MALEVICH's red square,
                                painterly realism of a peasant woman
in two dimension
-
a Faustian gamble... mental retardation...
no curly curves on pillars, no mention
of Pompeii... mythical Atlantis with its sea-monkeys
agile in water but hardly acrobatic on earth
(exceptions due to Russian Lolitas)...
no regime, no rigour, too much jealousy surrounding
the Renaissance art-schools, jealousy, greed,
fat parasites invoking their name, say, Raphael
as useful as the noun tree, hammer, ship tried to be...
hell the mad dog without a KA GA NIEC
and off the leash... you really can't expect more
abstracts... but art follows science,
what with anti-matter, subatomic particles,
art will see less beauty and science more complications,
both will be working on abstracts...
enter the art critics with their narratives...
also due to the fact that calculators replaced our
natural ability to process arithmetically...
hence a lost technique of arithmetic and a more
sensual engagement in the motto: precipitating
toward a MALEVICH black cross, black square etc.
was the art movement cubism - unravelling
the cube post-scriptum in it all... *******
this ultra-modern fascination with Python-gruesome-oraz
(oraz translated as: also) -
come the critics and their narratives
of triangles without a thinking-do-d'ah suggesting
trigonometry or a squared + b squared
equates to c square (or a hypotenuse...
likewise with hippopotamus i'm dyslexic to mind the
matter too much... honest to god,
i'm dyslexic with certain words - mainly because
it's hardly a scene in a pub: 'pint of ale my good man'),
and added to the chaos of lack of diacritic
in english, you tend to be chaotic with punctuation,
and the words stemming from the latin
æ grapheme (graphite, the tertiary carbon representation)
simply coagulate into a rancid custard of
non-differential puzzles via sūdoku - now repeat
after me, the sharp Japanese HI! sù doku!
HI! HI! well, aye, but it's sùdoku! HI! HI!
si sense... and there's the roundabout.
i'm probably the first poet of darwinism,
i got a blank in my head and i just allow the poem
to evolve... why sù and not sú?
you aim to repress, insert a quasi pause, stress
the would be associated categorisation of sù
as prefix... the doku comes as an suffix -
in culinary terms that's representative of
a hunchback leaning over a *** of sauce and
invoking a movement, a whiffing to get the scents
ticking the nostril fibres - wave in, entice - so indeed
the Japanese punctuation omitted in universal
encoding: - (the hyphen), the sharp impromptu
HI! (HIGH... *******, they're one and the same!)
sùdoku hin ji roo shika! that's samurai for:
i said sharpen my samurai sword like a mathematical
rubric of the 2 times table: 2 x 1, 2 x 2, 2 x 3... etc.
Johnny Noiπ Aug 2018
Already, a conscious courage is coming to life.
Here are some of the painters: Picasso, Braque,
Delaunay, Le Fauconnier; they are highly enlightened,
& do not believe in the stability of any system,
even if it were to call itself classical art.
Their reason is poised between the pursuit
of the fleeting and a mania for the eternal.
Quote of Jean Metzinger Note sur la Peinture (1910)
[the Cubist painters who]              continued to paint objects motionless, frozen, &                                                   all the static aspects of Nature;
they worship the traditionalism of                  w:Poussin, of w:Ingres, of Corot,     ageing & petrifying their art
      with an obstinate attachment to the past,
      which to our eyes remains totally incomprehensible;
                            Is it indisputable that several aesthetic
declarations of our French comrades
[the Cubists in Paris] display
a sort of masked academicism.
It is not, indeed, a return to
the Academy to declare that
the subject, in painting, has
a perfectly insignificant value?
To paint from the posing model
as an absurdity, and an act of
mental cowardice, even if the model
be translated upon the picture in linear,
spherical and cubic forms;
Quotes by Boccioni in his text
of 'Les exposants au public' - exh.
Cat. Galerie Bernheim-Jeune,                      February 1912, pp. 2, 3
Get all the information you can about the Cubists,
                 & about Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso. Go to Kahnweilers' art gallery. And if he's got photos of recent works –
                              produced after I left -,
buy one or two. Bring us the Futurists in Italy,
like Boccioni himself;                          back all the information you can get.
Quote of Boccioni,                                in a letter to Gino Severini,
staying in Paris in the Summer of 1911;                     as quoted in Futurism,
ed. Didier Ottinger; Centre Pompidou /
5 Continents Editions, Milan, 2008, p. 27.
We [the Futurists] must smash,
demolish and destroy our traditional harmony,
which makes us fall into a 'gracefullness'
created by timid and sentimental cubs
[this denigrating word refers to the French Cubists].
Quote by Boccioni in his 'Sculptural Manifesto' of 1912;
as quoted in Futurism, ed. By Didier Ottinger;
Centre Pompidou / 5 Continents Editions, Milan, 2008                    Is it indisputable that several aesthetic declarations
of our French comrades the Cubists display a sort of masked
academicism;   It is not, indeed, a return to the Academy
   to declare that the subject, in painting,
        has a perfectly insignificant value?
To paint from the posing model as an absurdity,
& an act of mental cowardice, even if the model
be translated upon the picture in linear,
                    spherical and cubic forms;
Quote of Boccioni, in 'Les exposants au public' - exh. Cat. Galerie Bernheim-Jeune, February 1912 pp. 2, 3.
The square is not a subconscious form.
It is the creation of intuitive reason. The face of the new art.
The square is a living, regal infant. The first step of pure creation in art.
Quote of Kazimir Malevich,
in 'From Cubism and Futurism to Suprematism: The New Realism in Painting' (November 1916)
Unless we are to condemn all modern painting,
we must regard cubism as legitimate, for it continues modern methods,
& we should see in it the only conception
of pictorial art now possible.
In other words, at this moment cubism is painting.

Quote of Albert Gleizes, Jean Metzinger,
in Du "Cubisme", Edition Figuière, Paris, 1912
(First English edition: Cubism, T. Fisher Unwin, London, 1913)
To understand Cézanne is to foresee Cubism.
Henceforth we are justified in saying that
between this school and previous manifestations
there is only a difference of intensity,
& that in order to assure ourselves
of this we have only to study the methods
of this realism, which, departing from the superficial
reality of Courbet, plunges with Cézanne
into profound reality, growing luminous
as it forces the unknowable to retreat.
Quote of Albert Gleizes, Jean Metzinger,
Du "Cubisme", Edition Figuière, Paris, 1912 (First English edition: Cubism, T. Fisher Unwin, London, 1913)
Yozhik May 2017
Kasimir Malevich. You really have no idea how
annoying you are; I look at your Black Square,
first see nothing there; an Emperor's new clothes
situation; people feigning education by rambling
meanings from blackness; Ignoring what it lacks -
it's the reverse of what art should be. That's why
it calls to me.  Isn't it?  It is rebellion, revolution,
An iconoclastic icon, there are novels within it's
empty. Are there? So I feel strongly. But as for a
Judgement...I have Nothing. It's a Black Square.
Chikelu Eshe May 2017
satisfaction when falling
into the bottomless
two minutes slip by

all my lifetime of trying to recognize
spiritual masters, instead -
potential parents
flood the tunnels with the bad manners and
dressed in dark grey and green

such repugnance -
decadent as **** malevich
i crawl into his smoky rib cage
forget that the language
is dead.
he pauses, rushes and pants
paints his face skeleton
eyelids blank like i pictured - but
no seattle sound. math rock and machines going off they rocker
no rolling stone
**** her string along that neck
come back reborn. shut the door
collapse in the bathroom, throwing up
into the telephone -
sa ding **** made up words
or looped cuban songs -
back in the day is gone
not anymore not anymore

what do ripped jeans mean to you?
or 16th century persian poets?
when your mind is set afire
swarthed
you like women in klimt’s canvas
light beams through your slits
so you won’t drown in
ruthless thoughts stream
when your deafened ear catches
the ovations
pervading, dying blue note
still not the ending

madame blavatsky unfolding the envelope:
i’m the circle on palm leaf manuscripts
with a dot in the middle -
you’re the reason. the clarity and the void
the eye in between
the missing capstone, i am the folklore
strange beings with fishtail and
i might be the lizard
king, violet violent dressed in crimson
you squeezing them lemons
tequila so creamy
when spiky black leather rips through
the wires, sound effects are your favorite
print shops, in them zines. your dialect
you savor - licking your lips,
saturated and smeared, paranoid
black sabbatical
moon-kissed.

i know you all umbilical visceral
bite your teeth into and cut
catalonia - two halves, dry mouth
and scorching sun
you know i’m subtler than the red
a lotus flower growing in the west
silk sheets in ultraviolet, as soon as
you come to rest
i can smell the war in your curl
jet black and charcoal -
no matte.

no hole in your chest - yet
microchips, they flicker
under your skin as the muscles twitch
in the rem sleep;
black madonna’s humble soft gaze
through the painted veil. marble or onyx
did you feel defeated? when you’ve fallen?
into the bottomless - unknowing
fungus-like growing
upsidedown along with the
torus

cycles and waves, when it’s not subatomic
i wish we’d perceived past the
electromagnetic; distant planets and stars
tease my potential. if only
i wasn’t eclectic, if only
i was in zazen

i accept; sit back sense the vibrations
mind-vacuumed perception not split into parts;
a black whole: if you, color, still there
up high; this deceiving metronome
sound time-travelling in circles
splashes across; carmen in carmine
a girl walks home alone
feline; l'via, cygnus,
jimi,
come on
why don’t you set me free
KD Miller Jan 2017
"said my muse to me,
'look in thy heart and write.'"
-Philip Sidney

1
"
i have a song to show you," i said in the late morning
but did not play it until eleven that night.
your eyes seemed blue when i met you
i realized they are green or maybe temperamental.
as the train swept past the neighborhoods and the forests
in between them
and the white delicate soot of the snow lifted in the air
for a second, or two or three
one couldn't see anything from the window
on one side, this
on the other, you
one ethereal
the other, just frozen rain

2
in the museum,
the serious straight lines of malevich stared me down
i walked towards the other side of the room
when i turned around, the back of your head
ash blonde and head tilted
i looked at the art, then the floor, then the white walls
you looking at your favorite painting
you implied it was an honor and
i touched your shoulder
and called you the prettiest thing here.
you smiled. it was just the truth.
i said i would see my favorite painting
but i don't know where it is
you told me, with a laugh,
you did not mind traveling
i later found out
Portrait of Maude Abrantes*
is in Haifa.

3
"where do we go?" you asked.
"good question. i don't know,"
figure out for yourself what i meant.
The subways were all closed
and only the 7 was running
who gives a **** about the 7? i'd always said
guess the joke was on me.
walking to the station, whichever one we could find
i looked up at you with snow dusted hair
and frostbitten hands
feeling something i hadn't felt in years
"let's hop on a train and get off wherever"
it took 15 minutes
but the D train rolled in
and up to 59th we went,
then the E down to west 14th.
We laughed at the incompetency of bureaucracy
and hopped from the train onto the platform,
watching the gap as we did.

4
there,
on west 14th
the Chelsea streets were wordless,
sleeping in on a saturday night
we walked past snowed in cars and i laughed at the
ridiculousness of it all
this is how badly i'd wanted to go to the city with you!
but i didn't mind
i walked a bit ahead
turned around
the beaux arts townhouses
on either side of us
strategically planned trees
and a pair of lost gloves
it was so quiet i couldn't hear my thoughts
just my heart's rhythm
in the station that night
you had told me you wished i had a place in brooklyn to go back to
"yeah, if we could even find a train that went there," i laughed.
Johnny Noiπ Apr 2018
he's trying to spell like a painting
painting w/ his eyes closed; slash

ing

thick dark forest green  back & forth
w/ house paint on a prepared canvas;

he's got a calling
inspired by Russian Constructivsim
Malevich & Rodchenko, Popova
& Mayakovsky tying & untying words

to spell out a cubist alphabet
like constructing Mondrians in 3D;

talking computer geometrically insane
Miro; ******, always ******

— The End —