Subversion of the brush
- jurigol
- Jun 5, 2024
- 1 min read
Filling the void.
I worked on it. Soft. It sniffed out humor. It craved contact. Closeness, he doubted. Roughness. He kept asking. Scratched, provoked limits, the same ones.
Body.
Screams. Crying.
Those voices, in color.
What a memory, what nothing!
Scandalous lies.
It was pure reality. Powerful incarnation. Deposit. Horizon in the round, vast and deep. Photos. Familiar faces.
Medium, small pots. 500 ml. Tubes. Sacrifice. The call.
Throw up, throw up!
I heard you loud and clear, boss. This is the place for it!
He laughed. And the voices... Fucking bitch! Fucking bitch! Yes, you're not crazy.
Yes, you're not embarrassed.
Child. Weight. Heart chakra. Useless! Sacred office. Summon. Motive.
Provokes.
It brings everything together. Death.
It starts from the trisal, from the colors. Essence. Reveal.
Share your cosmos. No return.
To ancestry.
Until the break, the discard.
Aggregate, throw everything away. Power.
It felt everything.
It varied intensely.
It dropped its weight into the water.
Flaccid rigidity, in the water, dirty.
Complexity.
It said what it wanted... from the guts! It was the brush... A medium. One of the mediums.
And it was just 9:11 in the morning on the clock.
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