Clingy and Ancient

'Clingy and Ancient'

Last year is a foul creature that deserves to die.

My splintered bones and foggy recollections stumble through time, bitch-slapped by decay and kicked by those who need, but have more than me. The weapon of time fires every day, hitting my eyes, my heart and kneecaps, tearing fresh wounds with every sunrise. Old wounds heal from the clock's medicinal tongue, but it's bitter and weak. Like me, clocks should have scabs, gashes, scars and get the shakes once in a while.

So I cling to the little bastards that fall from time's broken womb. Nuggets of the clock, moments wedged in an ice cube, remind me of when I cared little for a new year and hoped for something more than pathetic imitations of humility, before their feigned benevolence slit my throat and left me for dead. Those bastards of frozen time are revealed to me now. I see their terror and greed with eyes incapable of tears. And I still cling to them.

Clingy and ancient is the ticking clock that slowly cooks my innards and boils my brain, turning all to goo and ash, while I wrinkle and endure.

Expensive and Sticky

'Expensive and Sticky'

It's costly and I hate it.

So it's that time of the year when brightness blasts the chill from the air like vile missiles sent from the ass of love.

So there's hot chocolate with marshmallows, like syrupy puke from a monster's round, gluttonous belly. Candy cane rainbows blot out the hollow stares of those who are best forgotten. Why let their meager want and hurtful ignorance dampen your spendy holiday?

So I hear the songs, but not the warmth. Carolers chirp like songbirds, sending happiness to someone who has none, cannot find it, and cowers from it. They sing to a broken, crumbling wall and do not see it. They don't want to. They sing for their own giddy sense of worth.

Being expensive and sticky means it's time for alcoholic detours through a land of smiling want and feigned charity. It's a land of snow and warmth covered in Christmas-colored gang green. It kills you because it can.

Grotesque and Coddled

I'm amazed you even know how to breathe. So I see grotesque things. When awake. Sickening masks hide sickening behavior. Drooling smiles hint at the awful impulses waiting behind the teeth. Chirping birds don't make beautiful music; they vomit war. So much for being coddled. It's not worth the pain and degradtion to want. The cold hands of Mother Nothingness pamper my fat ass. Her touch is a symphony of reality's horns, gunshots and whimpering pleas for some non-existent betterness. I'm not grotesque and coddled. You are.

Boris gets first showing in Phoenix

It's often difficult to share something that was created in the dark recesses of your own mind.

Like many painters, writers and other forms of artist, the creations are made more to take the edge off something that stirs in your soul. Seeing those creations appreciated is often not a driving factor at the time and can sometimes come as a surprise when others see in your work something that inspires them. Or frightens them.

I created the Boris paintings as a response to my own dark place, and he answered passionately, but not easily. When it comes to Boris, I first sought to paint an ugly individual who wanted nothing more than to be left alone to explore his own unhappiness. When I shared my images on Facebook, and sought a name for the bald-headed grump, I met with positive results, which surprised me.

The darkness inherent in the paintings were generally well-received. My friend Sunny Murray even suggested the name Boris, which resonated so well with me that I couldn't call him anything else. And he went on to highlight the depression, anxiety and unhappiness that many of us feel deep inside every day. A theme began to form as well, stringent rules that I applied to each work as a way to challenge myself in setting a strict tone for the unrelenting Boris. The acrylic paintings, the ugliness of the landscape, were done in a way that I thought Boris would want them done. His notes were written to illustrate his thoughts, and duct taped to the canvass, as I thought he would want it done.

Now Boris will make an appearance in his first art exhibit and it's a fitting one for his type. A handful of Boris paintings, along with art from a wide array of talented painters and photographers, will be on display in Phoenix for Angelica Gallery's “Dark Art – The Exhibit” on Saturday, Sept. 17. The exhibit will begin at 5 p.m. and go to 10 p.m. The gallery is located at 3607 E. Campbell Avenue in the valley.

Having been the sole owner, and caretaker, of Boris this last year, I find it a little disconcerting to know the paintings are no longer in my possession. I can only compare it to being a father. When your children leave, you feel something is missing. That's how I feel now when I look around for my stack of eleven Boris paintings, but excited at the same time, knowing that dark place in my soul may find like-minded interest in those who gaze upon him.

Unlucky and Broken

Luck is a myth invented by lucky people.

Someone else finds $100 and spots me $5, but I have to pay it back, which puts me further in the hurt later. They take the $5 and snatch a lottery ticket that wins them $10,000 and go to Burning Man in their Lexus. I weigh less.

What’s broken and scattered to the four winds can never be made whole again. The good thing is no one is looking for any of the pieces. No one knows anything is broken. The pieces aren’t invisible. They smoke cigarettes and drink coffee.

Being unlucky and broken is something people laugh about before they break apart, before no one helps them in a way that really matters.

Cold and Smelly

Have fun freezing in your mistake-filled psychosis.

So I know what’s it’s like to be a block of ice. Seeing through it kind of works, but everything is distorted by the time your vision makes it out of the other side. The shivers are pestering notifications that death can result. The chill is what it will feel like.

So I smell bad to defend myself against attention from Judge Society. Nothing is more offensive to humanity’s mild-mannered sense of worth than the “Do Not Disturb” notice inherent in silent putrefaction. Brilliance can hide under filth I’m told.

Cold and smelly thoughts turn slowly in solitary reflection, knowing death has been slowed long enough to accomplish an irrelevant goal or two, and no one will ever know.

Burdened and Alcoholic

My shoulders are tables for people to put crap on.

So I’ve been feeling like Atlas, but without the coolness. Or the looks. Or the muscles. I have cracked bones and bruised skin. I have a vacancy sign hanging behind my eyes. Were that space occupied I might find a solution to what I know is a problem. I know how to hold a problem and just stand there.

So I believe alcohol ownership is better than having a pet. You can carry both around, but one needs attention and money and patience, while the other needs your misery, which is far easier to provide. The other needs love.

Being burdened and alcoholic is one hell of a crutch for one hell of a life. If I ever loved anything, it’s a crutch.