Demented Confessions 20 – The Hanged Man and The High Priestess in The Bardo

The Hanged Man and

 

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Version 3

Version 4

These were the cards I dealt

the night I fell again

into that Bardolic hole of wonders.

The third was the nightmare 9 of Swords,

The 9 of Skulls as I interpret here.

 

Like dead leaves chained

this angst was too absurdly histrionic;

The Hanged Man, a rush of blood to the head,

The Priestess awaits confession at the holy web

and the sleepless guilt of The 9 eats our dreams.

 

I am no stranger to these journeys.

The Bardo is not only for the dead

as Life is not only for the living.

More often now I seem to walk through mirrors

with one foot here and one foot there.

 ~~~~~~

 

Art and Poem by clinock

Art: 8″ x 17″ (20 x 43 cm). Mixed media relief in cradled panel.

http://www.johnclinockart.com

 

Demented Confessions 19 – Touch

Touch

don’t touch

touch

transcendent / tantalizing

fingertips evoke

The Electricity / The Ecstasy

of skin

unfurling

a million cocoons

releasing

butterfly kisses

Yet To Be Confessed

~~~~~~~~~~

Art and poem by Clinock.

Touch, 8 x 8″ (20 x 20 cm), mixed media relief in cradled panel.

http://www.johnclinockart.com

 

 

 

Spring – Resistance is Futile!

 

 

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magnolia

“Dorothy was at the sideboard, breaking eggs and spilling them into a bowl. Just watching the oval things crack in her white fingers and spill forth with a golden plop created a series of small explosions inside me. My calves shuddered as she scrambled them with a fork and they turned yellow like her hair. She poured a bit of cream into the mixture and the silken smoothness of the descending cream had me reeling. I wanted to say, ‘Dorothy Parrish, I love you’, to take her in my arms, to lift the bowl of scrambled eggs above our heads and pour it over our bodies, to roll on the red tiles with her, smeared with the conquest of eggs, squirming and slithering in the yellow of love”.

from 1933 Was A Bad Year by John Fante

monday-haiku

crocus

mandala drawing and photography by clinock

 

April Fools, Blue Moon, Easter Sunday, Oh My!

waitingroom4

two foolish ones

attempt

a meaningful conversation in the night

on the doorstep of spring

their words

slow syllables, emerging, fragmenting, dissolving

their words

dance dark and dizzying waltzes

stumbling

falling under starless skies

they cannot agree who has the key to the door

forgetting

it was never locked

two foolish ones in the dark

struggling to speak

while beyond the door

quiet brightness waits

bigstock-tragic-night-sky-with-a-full-m-45382897

and then there’s Hollywood

 

 

poem and art by clinock. acrylic and mixed media on paper. 12″ x 10″.

WEAR YOUR BONNET WITH PRIDE — HAPPY MASH-UP EASTER!!!

Just – spring

rite-of-spring

in Just-
spring          when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles          far          and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far          and          wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it’s
spring
and

the

goat-footed

balloonMan          whistles
far
and
wee

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Poem: In Just– by e.e.cummings. 1920.

Painting: Rite of Spring, by clinock. 20″ x 30″. (51 x 76 cm). acrylic on paper.

 

Demented Confessions 18 – Caught

Caught 2

 

Fish, mouse, poet,

hooked and guillotined,

snagged and gridded and greened,

caught in the act,

enchanted.

 

From before the beginning

there was no possibility of escape.

I learned to love the pointy end,

confess with blood and colours on my tongue

and be still.

~~~~~~

 

Poem and art by clinock.

Caught. 8″ x 8″ (20 x 20 cm). Mixed media relief in cradled panel.

Demented Confessions 17 – Waiting For The Big One

Waiting for The Big One

For surfers it’s the ultimate wave,

the cosmic and final tsunami

THEBIGONE.

For me it’s the death squad,

the surfer skulls from hell,

the ultimate wave goodbye,

the call for last orders,

Time Gentlemen Please,

A final kick at the can.

Goodnight sweet prince.

There’s nothing bigger

in this waiting room.

do not go gentle

 

 

Let them come I say, I can take them all.

Let them try the drowning,

impalement on spiked boards

and evisceration by absurdity.

I’m too dry, too full of fire and too much in love

to be taken without a dance.

 

Bring it on you hairless, hapless harpies

swarming on sharpened feathers.

You can’t be serious.

I will laugh you into dust.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Art and poem by Clinock.

Waiting For The Big One, 24 x 12 “, (61 x 30.5 cm.), mixed media in cradled panel.

http://www.johnclinockart.com