or net – cold man

high noon, stoned immaculate, jim morrison masturbation moment. he’s stood there with a shotgun aimed at a melon shouting jackson pollock’s name to the four corners of the room.
‘i was born under a ceiling decorated with picasso’s guernica, you understand?’
‘i was squatted out in the gutter of a slaughterhouse.’
‘same difference.’
‘we found our aesthetics early, eh?’
‘sure, sink to the bottom, rise to the top; all to do with the roughage.’
she is dressed in a dress that she fashioned from the cut up pages of time magazine; her most beautiful extremeties released from the caging of traditional clothing.
‘i sweat and have something to read later,’ shes says, distractedly, one finger engaged in the preliminary circling motions of a session of manual stimulation.
a camera shoots. polaroid instant and a dead image drops to the floor. the child with the safety scissors runs into the room, picks it up and cuts the face out.
‘not real; not reel,’ it cries, de-sexed in its innocence – free of the strictures of common society.
he puffs away on his joint while staring at a captain beefheart caricature of the great god Zappa.
‘there is an Ornette moment coming.’
‘how do you sense it?’
‘my antennae are twitching.’
‘i see them.’
‘take a kirlian.’
‘of course.’
a small black hole forms in the centre of the room which is blanketed in theoretical particles; they step through the breach in normal physics and enter a jazz moment. the universe begins.

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