1998 — Machined
By Sean Rose
We are wastes of time. I stole a glimpse of a friend gone mad, saw the love that inspires me to thrust this forth so, and faced my neglect and weakness in a single evening. A day for the books.
The silver disc spins round, mountains and valleys become food for the machine. It streams down the pipelines to a core processor and is then thrust through a tough cabling. Angst driven energy moves the paper cones in a volley of sound that pummels my skull. A trance given, my machine-like fingers pound the steady rhythm. I remove the glue that has formed on the tips of my fingers. The light grease I use to ease the pain of confession congeals after a period of time, and breaks down into simple wax and oil. The oil drips away and leaves a hardened coating on my digits. Time to grease them again I suppose for I see no quick end to the child I bear here.
Blue flames surround the last atom of vibration that hits my ear. The electrons hold their steady course, weaving the pulse that is prodigal. One's watchful eye can count the oscillating balls. DNA chains of sound abound and are renewed as the next selection picks up the silence left off. Red looks hard, a tall wonder, I stand calm and confident. She is my desire. Epitome of what one dreams is cast of my soul in her. I was not surprised to see her this eve, as a matter of, I had seen her at thus event prior and had hoped to see her again. Careful of what you wish for, fate may surely give it to you. And a fool most hearts can be with desires! So listen sharp these words, you will reap them someday. At any, Red was callous at best, a shell tonight of her usual self. I could see no fire in her eye, no drive to be of her ordained saint-hood. I give up of myself as well, so I should not criticize so. Glass house brick thrower. Career oriented. Well maintained machined digits. Comes with extra grease. Red's beauty had grown again since my last converse with, but she had hidden it well this eve. A long, heavy coat and dull clothes hang her frame, a glass held in hand. Her straight hair fell lightly across the breadth of her shoulder. Mercy on me for ever causing pain between us. A heavy look and I speak with Kari. Strange how time can change some things and not others. Forgiveness is a gift, not a human trait. Hate can not last forever. And stone carved beauty crumbles at cold heart. Dark hearts encircle me.
Heavy air swirls to, and the lot sees a good wind. I stare out the glass window at the debris floating on the air. Returning through the doors, the outside air smells of diesel oil strong. The smell is thick, I believe you could pour it as a coffee, and consume the dark contents.
I visualize love in death and death as love. My model is a young woman. The life had left her body in a rather unusual way. The authorities deemed investigation a necessity. Now, I had her. Laid bare on a table before me, I studied the stitch that had put her back together. Her abdominal cavity was not as extruded as I thought fit, and I am sure, for whatever reason being, that not all of my young girls insides had been returned to her. The slightly emaciated look of her body is always a fashion, as we humans are fascinated by death as much as we are by life. Her breasts are still soft, I note, as I run my fingers down across the cut that had split the nipples open. The lines meet in the center of her chest and fall straight down to the top of her intimate area. The handiwork was neat, but crude, the stitch was heavy and a full half inch in width. The cord looked as if it were ordinary twine, as one would use to secure a sign or tether a package in an automobile. I wonder if it burns to have that snake run through you like that, its head punched down through the flesh and burrowing to the surface, only to repeat the pattern again. There is a soft glow to her face, a small smile rides her taint delicate lips. I see a dusting of blue powder on the lids that hide her eyes. Long lash bat at me and I wonder if I didn't see her eyes open briefly. I tattoo the words-
Rage Hatred Deception Blood Death
across her belly in the finest black ink I can find. As I am wiping the excess away, I see the tops of the pores of skin filled with the dark pigment. The alcohol rub only does so much. I layer the canvas backdrop with a thick blue oil and line blue plastic stars alongside her body. I use a heavy steel wire, sanded of course, to fasten her to the board behind her. The shiny bands cut the skin in some places but only a small amount of chemical comes forth. I paint her delicate, breasts, and face red. A halo of old film I had shot, and a rainbow of complete the project for now.
I am an american artist.
Thank you for spending your time and hard earned money with me, here and in the real world. You can contact me, hire me, read about me or just check out my jeep.
