Monday, January 19, 2009

sliding into de-evolution doesn't even cover it

He holds onto the edge of nowhere, establishing sad american escapism in small talk about the weather, television informercials telling you how to increase the size of your penis. His sad life is all wrapped up in getting away from himself in addiction. This man is all of us. The man is sitting in your room drinking beer and eating chips and slowly slipping into death, unhealthly and uneventfully. He calls himself your father. If all we are, are useless meat bags doomed to hit the fryer in death why even try to live, to be an expansive being that feels, smells, loves, and has human capibilites of thought, art, abstract life, masochism, hatred, anything that shows he truly has live and functioning brain cells. In self discovery life is discovered, and in non-socialable and sub-conscious realms god, love, sex, hate, pity, destruction, everything we pitiful beings are, it’s all in this place. Jesus is drinking down a cup of water and we are being sucked into the sunset in the lake, its time to dream, to live to be controvesial, be real, be humanitary to humanity, be qued up for your next role. Its time to flip the tape side a= non-chalant ways to live shallowly in parties, sex, drugs and a shit life. Side b= how to avoid everyone and act like your choices have no effect. Flow into my mouth and swim in my dreamscape. Love is alive here, sad sorrowful, detached and beautiful, alive. I do not enjoy pain but rather pain is sometimes more alive then true love. Do I love her? what the fuck is love? what is it? how can abstract feeling feel so concrete yet so far away, oh lonely feeling drift away into obscuredy. Floresent schemes balance on my sternum and she kisses me in the dark, I can’t light up the darkest house I am too dim. Who is she? how is him? I, do rather well, well as in hell if i know, she is quite, wonderful though, who is she really? I talk with her so much, yet I only scratch the surface of her being with my boyish hands. I feel happier being close to her, yet sometimes I’ve never felt more alone then when I am surrounded by friends. Hollow spots in the wall are good hiding spots for potted people, that is to say two dimensional beings who are no one and everyone all at once. She is my nobody and my somebody all at once. She will never be gone, but how can she be gone? is she a breathing vibrating being or only a loving glimpse of eternity? I have never “liked” or felt happy with any woman like her before, it is strange to be so real and yet so vacant. The hotel signs are slow in pattern and so is love, come and vibrate inside my skull.

copyright andrew kerr 2009

fireflies in the mysterious oil burn high,burn out the midnight oil

I fall unto my knees crying, her eyes piercing me, light untamed fireflies, it’s making the whole room glow in anticipation. Two moving white boulders in her skull, chalk irises’ melting down my soul into ribbons. I can’t feel the darkness anymore it is all ecompusing all five senses; I am the blind beggar, the untamed lion, the deaf leper falling to pieces in the backroom with the Pharisee. I try to stand but the fireflies glow in my fists I am the slave and not the owner. I explode light out of my every pore and illuminate the cracks for my own intentions. Our light is a fooless temperature, unradiated lengthy wavebands that ripple the surface of every one, vibrate into a vibrato of lazy dead weights. Death is no place for a butcher to be especially on a Sunday afternoon in the public shot glass eye. The raptors rip the flesh of the neon children wrapped in cocoons of fishnet glory for future generations. Static egg sack be my Rembrandt light me in a solo heartless chord. Flip flap the sounds of flap jacks and grandpa at five in the morning watching the sunrise…I miss the man that held our family in his tender palm. It all shatters, but I still love his army skin coat.

copyright andrew kerr 2009

never oh never did I ever bend my legs to look like architechture

he leans over the bench shooting small dead sleeping men out of each nostral. Each one explodes into a pentunia as they take root in the ground, how I love natural nature. Oh my you are slick! with your dead calf skin coat and mediocre human face and holographic basketball necklace, this is what traveling lite is truly about. They plug in multiple cords into your sockets, your eyes , anus, mouth and feet. Your a toxic vibrating oily human machine! they feed you with vinyl tubes and electrical rembrandt, van gough, and salisberry steak tv dinners. Look behind you that tree is made of cotton and has a man inside of it. The tree is now tip toeing away to burn its brothers and sisters to the ground, family muteny never tasted so delicously original. There are so many of us waiting to cleanse our lungs and brains in bleach so that we may be renewed as someone completly new and original. No more being stuck as one sucker your whole life! in fact multiple personality is not a disorder but a specific religous experience dedicated to our generation our generation? what can my generation do when our eyes are sewn shut and our lips are full of blood and computer chips? we are drowning in boredom and self illusion, technology is are jesus christ in an electrical box. When will we awake from this spiritual nightmare maybe when you stop being so slick.

copyright andrew kerr 2009

this is life the only thing left again



a video i made in high school my i have changed
copyright andrew kerr 2009

this is the house you where burned in



mixed medium presentation starring andrew boring copyright andrew kerr 2009

this version of your story was never told



mixed media presentation copyright andrew kerr 2009

how are you quite well thank you



mixed media presentation copyright andrew kerr 2009

god gave up the ghost and i gave him a home 2008-2009 art series

Photobucket PhotobucketPhotobucket " she only knew as far as she could reach"- chalk on asphalt 2008
the death of the modern coniseurPhotobucketPhotobucket ""the death of the modern coniseur"-chalk, zenith circuit board on asphalt Photobucket " we found him on his back in the woods smiling towards heaven" -acrylic, pasted paper on found wood sign Photobucket "god gave up the ghost and I gave him a home" - acrylic, bark, cigarette butts, lipstick, pasted paper, telephone wire on canvas Photobucket "we gather around the fire to witness"
Photobucket "there she goes again, there I go putting on another spin"- digital print, mixed medium Photobucket "oh yes it was a place to be"Photobucket "God taste like plastic"- acrylic, dirt on canvas Photobucket " how can we drift?"-acrylic,inksasasd "my wife is now thirty years old" -acrylic, hair, etc. Photobucket "the wave of pschyics is overPhotobucket acrylic, hair on canvas " we never saw the other side of eternity"- acrylic, sumi ink, chalk pastel on linen Photobucket "the birth of the street in form of two hundred smiles"- hair, pasted paper, found objects, acrylic on street sign.

happy new new you ladies!



a short film i made of footage of the space needle fire works a song called india is in her eyes that i recorded in high school and windows movie maker.

my hands hold out a smiling gesture

she smiles and then laughs, life escaping in one insane, exotic breath. her breath cools turning into a mist that floods the valley, putting out the firey homes of men. Now only wooden skeletons that seem to laugh in relaxation remain. now free from their cracked old wooden skin. The men lay on the floors of the homes listening to their skeletons crack and moan, no more are they young. The wood panels break craddling the men in a warm, damp womb of wood. They sigh and lay still, her mist turns into a chill wind. The men turn to dust and litter the country side riding her breath to their eternal destination. The homes light a flame again and her laughter turns to anger, sadness , fear and finally rain soaking the houses. They groan, steaming letting their souls drift skyward the rest of them clawing at the earth with their foundations. Then finally they give in and become old men and join the men's ashes as she laughes again whispering " no more are they young, no more do they run, but look how much they loved this land and their homes, now in eternal hearts they rest".

copyright andrew kerr 2009