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hieronymous like a bosch…

the canvas is a warm texture to the touch as a finger slides over the rough edges embossed as slight below the surface the media sits awaiting the turns and thrusts by which imagination has become as splayed upon this blank wall crying out for color to remove the stark brightness glaring from the easel pondered upon by the artist as clarity syphons mind toward the material where this interpreter is idly aware of art as something outside of the Self less perceived, a caricature cut from ideas left to be fused together into a pastiche that reveals little to the lurking tainted eyes of the observers perverted in their dreams and a horrid fantasy of what reality can be by their obnoxious greeds agreed to between each other that this vision is a glorious one despite the vanity in captivating the world at large suspended in disbelief as solution to conceive of the mutilating grotesque in humanity growing fetid, and clenching the tools that no small minds can achieve through lowering themselves into the muck for treasure when possessing whole nations as a prize is a cursed blessing to ache through to the grave wishing great conquering medleys so many will sing when left as legacy in the wake of a disintegrating human being choosing the goods of a disservice to the harmony of a charitable humility attempting to bring the disparate parts and classes together… the ages passed tell us many stories that we still require filling in blanks to their narrative by way of intuition whether to degrees of wrong thinking in err about the old social dynamics between an early adaptation of the human being to this environment newly thoughtful about their own safety while speaking to the gods inside their heads in the primordial stages before callosums came to link both sides to the cosmic argument caught by the organic transmitter’s skull-deep periphery, by happenstance we as slaves tied to this tree of life variation currently proceeding as planned drawing and quartering values as a basis from which to manipulate the progress of civilization from afar while analyzing the connective relationship conjoining these patterns as ever-expansive catalytic background from which to somehow free all of oneself from the inevitable weight with few outlets to escape this monotony without dying first, or do we constantly stand upon a tight precipice in whose true vision distorts whatever we finally choose to be seen as plain facts turning consequential material into a reaction through the worst of it with worts and all rampant defining volleyed back and forth over the chasm of ignorance as the words and the will are part of a larger ritual which defies any easy categorization as humans trying to understand this vessel and interpretation filtering senses while baffling that which are constantly shifting loyalties within this chemical-social petri dish sloshing away merrily towards ‘solid memories’ for an oblivion of changing?…

Thanks, khet.