| datura 02 | a group show | light~harvesting complex
02: the Greenhouse
sunlit midnight strawberry moon
Phantom swanling wedding bands rake rip and color about the pimpled grey woman’s goose-neck pickled in her trouble bath and salt rimmed river house,
on licking web and browning water string...
She calls for a house to homes, not just a rubber room for mind clubbers but a solemnly sworn love bank that reaches and breaches the tippy tadpoles grotto, only buck stopping on bugs breeding ground zero where unrest shells and ganders.
Quiet statues slack stare outward in ugly suckling thought band-aid bathing but
veiled away from the headstone maker’s blue red blinking rattles. Content with your proposal: “an icky ode to spectral send-offs must be honed in perfect boomerang rebound,” headstone maker set to work a tool for peaceful warm returns to and from forever’s celadon threshold.
With time, ability via fashioned tools can be abled, but through tears and cries the process shakes in hold, quivers in thought, and altogether halts in memory. Love from beyond the grave a silent glamour smoke in echo chamber.. the perched ember’s calling you!
Picky plucking leaves neighboring water fowlers bathed in Styx-y wetness and bless-d butt naked, not enough love left in-wake to wake the cadaver yet fruitful in lower drives those unconcerned with outcomes or birdy bias. A chill east-wind sets a cardinal standard, lost lovers can ogle at the mountainous bar above and before them the unafraid even attempting a full mount with success slimming down to none. Tethers clipped to lonely heart breaks fix bind and carry fantasies on haughty night wings, the light of day void on moonlit twitters.
My own attempts at such an ascent crumbled in descent to depths even deeper than tideless pools stowed away in pepper-sauce caverns; not lost but not without loss either. I hope these juggle hopes make a mark or embed in something which sticks, nevertheless I will remain here in swan’s place shooting turn about shots at purgatory’s lowest mantle.
i water a glass universe, heavy electric skies tattooing the leaves and the wings of it melting away wherever, this light took the anterior of my spirit lifted beyond blue to pink. fires lick at the filaments, thin ripples of earth, the water sits, its sweets and sins are sleeping free. outside, lit softly now, sea of white noise and static, my insomnia forever piles verses glossolated senseless and senseless me. i left glassy-eyed again and am filled.
that you seep. oh, shine. garments shed for the phosphate cuneiform sky, frail towering bodies dew-stroked to the clouds, polyphonic them too and a love stashed in the bushes left behind. left back inside this atmosphere, constant voltage, warm air, needles under your palms, the sun creeps through the grasses race with ants. solarized my heartstruck vein, clod my breath to shadows slipped in the distance, damp pharmacological morning longing to surround something and i have this electric silence, blazing with clouds.
peeling time with a paring knife the juice stings the cuts on my fingers and i barely taste the fruit. this always works well for me, for me who will display things. the steel horses bridled by the wind like an enthusiastic crowd, great horizon-bridges that span the rivers like giant segments of time before I had this solitude, smoke-plumed into docile sighs in the sun with a glitter of knives.
I could never touch it again. I could physically feel my thoughts grow softer and begin to glow. typical mint haze above the grown bald field, the prickly wall of honeysuckle, milk in the can with a greenish haze, small near the beds and dense on the furrows. bounded north and south shipyards have the crooked lines of their smoke, and I have the day when the sun passes on a dying track to unload its fury into the ocean. love is not an image. fools deride what any child understands easily in the grass, the fear that nothing will ever be so stimulating as the love and hate of dreams.
dautra, a group show at light~harvesting complex
with jordan dawson, alice aster, Cassie Klenk, Karl~William Klenk, Willow O'toole, Torre Alain (Halo)
Photos by Sara Blosseville & Victor Gogly
install and photos by Sara Blosseville & Victor Gogly
curated by Underground Flower (torre alain)
water fowled, water fouler : by karl‐william klenk
flower system (justine, 20, aries moon, signs: 🪞): by halo