by Paul D Robertson

Mixed media (acrylic, oils, plaster, dirt, sand, grass, etc.)

Available for sale. I dunno how much yet. Um 1 metre x 80 cms.

Dislocation as a theme again - she is alone but blissful about it, impossibly so...

based on my dear frind Marina. Thick media. I like it. Not sold. Yet. AS

I swing through the night, the last of me not the best the very last ah so late, too late, too late always and forever.

Alone again, 3.53am on a saturnsday morning and how hot to be, how else to be? Heartbreak I take the night as my bride and in her arms I may sleep, I might, I would, I will.

So, well here I am – I am at my desk, there is mess, yes but not TOO much and most of it is in a most artistic painterly manner as I HAVE started working again. Got my extra strong will-kill-you-even-if-you’re-young-and-apathetic cigarettes, got my keyboard covered in paint. Have had my morning drugs. Have had two cups of DECAFFINATED COFFEE. That’s right, everyone, I am that much of a pussy.
I have anxiety. Why? I made a thousand dollars last night. I will make more today. I have the contact number for the CEO of the Commonwealth Arts foundation… I have called him but sounded like a DICK on the phone as I was talking to an answering service and well, because I was anxious. Because there is something wrong with my mind.
This is the reason, the only reason, that I can divine, the only thing that makes any sense and crawls around inside my head creating fear where there need be none, scratching holes in my rationale, ripping my reason and dragging fingers across my sense of wholeness, of wellness, of myself and whom and what I am and can be. The idea of leaving the house and going to anywhere and doing anything is frightening to me, where it need not be where there is no reason nothing there that can hurt me.
Well, not much. There is of course the question of the recent break-up with Lisa to maintain as a stinging eviscerating demon eating my insides.
Today I have gone for a run which really, really hurt, and cleaned a house. Well my house. I cleaned it to a degree of cleanliness heretofore unknown in houses of Paul, which still requires that there be paint on the fucking walls that I can’t get off and fuck the mopping I dunno where the fucking thing is anyway. There is probably some mopping secret that only clean women and gay guys know that I am unaware of. Detection of a note of wry bitterness may have entered the convolution of syntax, well fuck me perhaps it has perhaps I am perhaps acceptance is not a practice that right now I feel I can indulge in or even remotely poke with a long curved slimy stick. Fuck acceptance and fuck fighting I am settling for bitterness for today. Bitterness makes sense and makes for burned coffee and eat a lemon it’s great eat two do lines of lemon peel shove entire lemons up your nose live in a room of lemons squeeze them carefully and softly into each eye, go to the unemployment office and wring out each individual there into a bucket then drink the fucking thing. Let it dry in the weak sunlight, scrape it up and mix it with saline then shoot the fucker into your arm with a syringe.
Mind switch. Telethon appeal. I WANT to give money to TV STATIONS oh why can’t it be easier for me to give money to tv stations? And the CHURCH! I want to give money to support the propagation of the inappropriate arcane.
I think I have finally figured out why church architecture stopped developing in the 15th century. They thought it would provide an appropriate and succinct, deeply ironic (oh irony! In the face of happiness! Oh yes my favourite flavour, why is there no irony ice cream?) metaphor for the freezing of morality despite the incipient development of humanism. Nice one pope innocent whatever ix. There was one nice one who had all the birds in the Vatican killed because the noise really pissed him off. Well I say GOOD MOVE MOTHERFUCKER. More power to you. Go on go further oh but of course you did I had forgotten, lessee, yeah the crusades, that provides a nice little parallel – by the time they finally got to Jerusalem, both sides recorded the streets being ankle deep in blood.
Love
Thy
Fucking
Neighbour…
Or that the first crusade due to some whacky hermit, was actually composed of children and peasants and didn’t even make it past Constantinople before all dying. The second one was more impressive with illiterate knights actually eating an entire town. The cool thing about this was not only did they boil the fuckers up after (or as a means to) slaughtering them, and ATE them. They were actually Eastern orthodox Christians… oops. Well they couldn’t read the signs and must have got confused by the fact that they were no longer in France so therefore they must be evil and god should smite them or since he TENDS NOT TO APPEAR, particularly after the 4th c bc or so, it was up to them to boil the kiddies in a pot. All this at the pope’s behest. Oh, the one we have now must be raking his old nails down his face not to be able to do such things these days. Though more recently they did get to ignore everything the nazis got up to, and I am sure they are pretty happy about this killing of the infidel by our friends in delusion land with the guns. America America you suck so much America. Kiss my ass. I will build a bomb and explode it under my copies of life magazine now renamed fantasies r us. Or spastic approach to news or perhaps autistic reporting by a midget tied to a pony in lederhosen.
Ok I lifted that last part from south park but u get my point.

Gah sigh someone find me a point as pointy one that I can use to disembowel a mormen or two.

Enough bitterness. Enough enough. I have gone from railing history quoting bitter man to simple sad Paul, with heavy heart and limbs and world history swirled into oblivious hind brain like so much mauve paint. I just sold another painting. I have money now, and spent some of it on some new speakers, which allow me to induce with perfect and pure controllable inducements the mood I wish to enhance and hunger through. Though there is, unquestionably, something odd and hurtful, something spitefully cleanly sharply wrong with me, and my heart, my heart is broken, I find this liveable for right now once more. This morning I lay my head in my hands and sobbed out the exhaustion and pain, beat my desk and made my new speakers rattle, but there are always degrees and for now this one’s heat curves into acceptable, or should I say bearable…

“if love is a red dress, well hang me in rags.”
“if love is shelter, I’ll walk in the rain.”

And this is where I walk, edge walker, divine comedian. Though right now I don’t find anything funny. I should. There is always something funny, and I AM wearing pants with S A N E written down the side. You see, it is not just to reassure everyone, but because then I can be IN sane pants. PUNS. Fantastic, humour me, humour me, humour us as we skate into the night with our possible pasts blowing like prayer flags behind us.

“She stood in the doorway with a ghost of a smile.
Haunting her face like a cheap hotel sign.”

And time sickens me. Moments make me wretch with what they are, with their absolute sacrosanct inevitability. Make holes in the burning heart of God. I have people who do, directly, I know, pray for me. I hope that it makes a difference. Perhaps it does, perhaps not. Perhaps it is why I am still alive, and I can blame God for my suffering as I continue to live and rip through time like particles being torn to pieces on the edge of a black hole. Shiny with their last light, exploding outwards as they die. I feel like this.
When I succeed. Ah, yes… Tearing myself to pieces as I shine bright enough to scald my own eyes, extant awareness of the trap of atrophy that will swing me back to pain always, always. It is not true that what goes up must come down. It is true that a sine curve is forced upon us by the nature of life, of the universe. For every spike of brilliant brightness there WILL be an equal part, a disease of equality.
Wish Wish wish. Pray into the infinite dark, hold onto the sides of your mind and DON’T FUCKING SLIP. Some fissure in the void. Some smoke from the burning slide.

Heart