TESSELATION .
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Charcoal and chalk
80 x 65cms.
Tesselation means the act of joining together in math's and also just decoration. I called it that (at my friend Jessica's behest) because she is wearing mismatched underwear. Which I have to say I think is pretty cool, a touch more realistic and entirely deliberate.
And now for some ranting in typical Paul style...
Well
certainly it affects us all in velvet lines and nails dug into palms and
heights drawing us to their creeping, gorgeous edges. That final appointment
trembling inside our fragile trembling masques. This is where you are.
This is what you have left.
Courage as plagued and futile as fear, dignity an un-credible, absurd
end point.
The
words as pale and as oxymoronic as a just war or a healthy wound. Asking
and questing, snatching at our clothes, comfort me comfort me share this
with me, oh you must feel what I feel. Here, I’ll take your hand
and push with painful strength to the muscle and bone and webs of red
red flesh stringy and old. My words are nothing to the swollen mass in
my chest.
Dipped and silvered with simple kindness and past love. If only to hear
the morning in the pliable ductile moments of the scent of sex. When we
lay giggling like children and sounding sane and just like humans, just
like anyone, like anyone, like everyone else.
We shall never say time on our hands again. Brittle and small like the
singularity of your throbbing appetites. After the fall. Yes.
Time on our hands is time IN our hands. Remember this, swept up in the
kleptomaniac present. Find it ticking behind you, within you rehearsed
and constant in any heat you can feel.
Imagine the shocking thrill of your parents’ eyes locking for the
first time. Entwine your consciousness with the first moment that you
saw, breathless and startled, the beauty in your reflection.
I want to share with you so much, so much; my heart is boiling full of
knowledge, in a river where blood is born, an ivory string, a floating
spinning ball of an engine of involution, seventeen syllables holding
the world clenched in vehemently, intensely ALIVE wonder. A broken white
abacus furiously calculating, both faces of Janus for me, for you, a dark
and hungry god, but such wonders oh such wonders to share. And these old
wounds, deep and real and crusted with scars as they are, it is these
that have created us, burned us out from the husks that we were.
Phoenix
mother, hands like clouds.