... WOLF SESSION

men say that the tiger comes from the east and possesses a divine armour; his marvellous striped robe, conferring upon him a greater role than existence. when i was a little yoot i were taken to a zoo and invited to throw meat into the tiger enclosure. the wall i was slung over gave way, causing me to fall in and a tiger dragged me to the other side where i played with its young for hours. these were paper tigers, as harmless as rugs with eyes injected with blood and mouth wide open

the wolf approaches directly and doesnt attack but one feels attacked anyways

i sit here a disgusting half man husk of a person eating preserved dates out of a dented tin in my hovel and i’m convinced. youre right, they really are good for you i think to myself as i wipe my hand off on indeterminable month old garbage and cough up blood.

the horror from the tenebrous void sits behind me as it always has done, and goes where i go, as it always has done and i dont care, as i never have done. towering above and to the front of me is the provenance of all the real artists there ever was and their genius like a rare and superb object, indirectly lit and installed in a dark and peeling room melting all else away into obscurity. why should i look anywhere else? its obvious to anyone that the grace of god drops birds from the sky and drowns fish, while her beauty shames flowers.

i spit and cough up the last of my blood. with my dying breath i declare:

in the eyes of the blind dogs are just mathematical equations for how dogs move. stuff is just stuff arranged around or according to other stuff. who gives a fuck, it’s just stuff. an artist’s mannequin is poseable but not poseable enough. people who arent wholly devoted arent people. insects arent people. true art is invisible to all but the most supreme aesthetes. no it isnt. yes it is. probably.

aesthetes are children disguised as demons looking down from a ceiling fresco in a rococo smoking room

i’m dying now because it’s just words and i can say that if i want. no im not. no i cant. yes i am. yes i can. so save your valediction, idiot. i reach into the dented tin and pull out a single oat and start laughing at how retarded and cool everything is from atop my throne on trash mountain

elhieroglyph:

Egyptian amulets, from the Middle Kingdom to Ptolemaic Period, 2040-30 B.C.

trinkets bestowed onto the unworthy peasant filth by merciful avatars of death as a ceremonial tool of control

the sort of bijoux often spotted by a simple farmer some millenia later tilling the land and accidentally unearthing providence of mesopotamian-derived gods of religious state importance

wear these with a concealing robe and ritual death mask for a spectacular cult neophyte look this fall. the bloodthirsty gods forever seek their property and will run a lance through you, the heretic western thief and spoiler of ancient culture!

so look your best!!

art-documents:

Dayanita Singh / Ambulance

when photography is conducted with a magisterial level of conviction it transcends justification and academic provenance. composition and reason cease to matter. the mundane becomes glorious, the filth becomes obvious

Is our tower adequate to see them if they come?
are we ready? As you move up toward the sky and away from the surface you approach a simple inverse magnetic zone, at least it seemed so simple on the surface. science and theories drift toward imaginary values in your hadopelagic state. the only things allowed through are balloons and parachutes, just passing through. pause!! you are paused. we all will be paused until we stop and we return to equilibrium. I watch from the top of the tower, scaled with a climbing rope and the magic of pretty metaphor. your skin shines the same colour as the assorted tigers and lanterns in the sky. you might ask if the future can be found in any way but walking forward. I say that we are wrapped in mountains and everyone else is dead, breathing but dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead deaddead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead

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