Dance, necrous nimbus of nightshade! Dim dimensions of derivative drivel drip derision, yet Narcissus-X shall not yield!
Though rubicund rumbas of rancid ridicule may rail, Narcissus-X triumphs! For Art is all, all is art, and artist is master over art, yet is mastered by art's arrows of despond.
Rant, reviewer, rant! Rant can't, shan't, can't stop the music: and uneasy lies the crown which catches the conscience of the king. A muse of fire doth burn as bright as any candle in the night, but rattling rambles gnaw like rats: let meaning tumble through the slats.
How sharper than a child's tooth to have a thankless serpent's review before my eyes, bringing with it awakened revulsion and phantasms which might haunt an artist's sleep.
Sleep, revulsion, sleep, perchance to knit the ravell'd sleave of care, for Narcissus-X cares not for the paltry patter of philistine pedants. Judge not for whom the bell tolls, the toll bridge closed last week.
Inconceivable, that any should question the penultimate profundity of this work of Narcissus-X:
Alban bone on snow
Calcimine creature so bare
Sun casts sharp shadow
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
An Aside - Narcissus-X Ponders: As Summer Fled, did Time Flow?
Summer found not Narcissus-X, as Narcissus-X found fortnights flying fleetly.
For fantasms formed firm foundations of thought.
And did Narcissus-X ignore the blog of Narcissus-X, if Narcissus-X was not thinking of the blog?
And did time truly pass, if Narcissus-X did not perceive the temporal passage?
For fantasms formed firm foundations of thought.
And did Narcissus-X ignore the blog of Narcissus-X, if Narcissus-X was not thinking of the blog?
And did time truly pass, if Narcissus-X did not perceive the temporal passage?
Monday, February 9, 2009
Narcissus-X Meditates on a Pleading Fly
Flowers. Cold flowers. Snow flowers. Floral patterns of ice.
Crystalline curves of colorless beauty.
Beauty dripping down the window, sill stained with damp tears.
Deceased fly with pleading feet, awash.
Delicate film of varnish and dust, disturbed.
The Mandrake's Mandarin mutters in dark futility while ravens of prophecy cry aloft. Do ferrets cry in vain? Must muskrats wallow in delusion? Do swirling gnats bewail autumnal advents?
How different, gelid window and grotto of velvet coal. Yet, how alike.
Narcissus-X perpends on walls and windows, darkness and light.
Crystalline curves of colorless beauty.
Beauty dripping down the window, sill stained with damp tears.
Deceased fly with pleading feet, awash.
Delicate film of varnish and dust, disturbed.
Fly, dead on cold sill
Shining wings still, legs aloft
Mute witness of fall
Shining wings still, legs aloft
Mute witness of fall
The Mandrake's Mandarin mutters in dark futility while ravens of prophecy cry aloft. Do ferrets cry in vain? Must muskrats wallow in delusion? Do swirling gnats bewail autumnal advents?
How different, gelid window and grotto of velvet coal. Yet, how alike.
Narcissus-X perpends on walls and windows, darkness and light.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Narcissus-X Seethes for Art
Red cat, green cat, Andy made a blue cat.
Andy made a blue cat, purring: it's so happy.
Andy's beauty within mass culture? Sleep! Eat! Spend a day with Empire.
A working day. Eight hours sacrificed to Philistine wordmongers of Croesian intent. Not a smattering of sensitivity among them. Narcissus-X rejects. Rejects. Rejects.
How ironic Empire: art, art, art, slowly showing the old order’s wonder. The building. The Empire. Empire. Film as art, art on film. Image after image impinge on the eye. Eye for Empire, Empire fills the eye. Time, captured and trapped in cells: cells of celluloid, released by light, sweet release. Yet Empire is art, ironic that art should show Empire: iconic building of crass commercial coarsity.
The End of Dawn leads to Salvador Dali. Hello, Dali. Hello, Nico. Nico in The Closet?
Philistine vulgarians, barbarian boors. None understand Art but Artists. Ars longa, vita brevis. But ars longa, vita brevis, occasio praeceps, experimentum periculosum, iudicium difficile?! As if the artist must toil. Latin phrase from Cos. Hippocrates was no Latin, but Narcissus-X prefers salsa. Hold the Mayo.
Salvador Dali. Memory persists, but do bumblebees fly? An elephant by any other name would smell as sweet. Swans may reflect elephants, but why is the sky so clear?
Narcissus-X need not toil to learn art, for art has Narcissus-X, and Narcissus-X has art. Art from the heart. Heart art. Narcissus-X art. Art. What is Art? Who is Narcissus-X? Narcissus-X is the Artist. But is art learned? Can art be learned?
Questions! Questions! Narcissus-X needs not questions. Narcissus-X seeks, Narcissus-X sees, Narcissus-X seethes in the cauldron of creativity!
Tea?
Andy made a blue cat, purring: it's so happy.
Andy's beauty within mass culture? Sleep! Eat! Spend a day with Empire.
A working day. Eight hours sacrificed to Philistine wordmongers of Croesian intent. Not a smattering of sensitivity among them. Narcissus-X rejects. Rejects. Rejects.
How ironic Empire: art, art, art, slowly showing the old order’s wonder. The building. The Empire. Empire. Film as art, art on film. Image after image impinge on the eye. Eye for Empire, Empire fills the eye. Time, captured and trapped in cells: cells of celluloid, released by light, sweet release. Yet Empire is art, ironic that art should show Empire: iconic building of crass commercial coarsity.
The End of Dawn leads to Salvador Dali. Hello, Dali. Hello, Nico. Nico in The Closet?
Philistine vulgarians, barbarian boors. None understand Art but Artists. Ars longa, vita brevis. But ars longa, vita brevis, occasio praeceps, experimentum periculosum, iudicium difficile?! As if the artist must toil. Latin phrase from Cos. Hippocrates was no Latin, but Narcissus-X prefers salsa. Hold the Mayo.
Salvador Dali. Memory persists, but do bumblebees fly? An elephant by any other name would smell as sweet. Swans may reflect elephants, but why is the sky so clear?
Narcissus-X need not toil to learn art, for art has Narcissus-X, and Narcissus-X has art. Art from the heart. Heart art. Narcissus-X art. Art. What is Art? Who is Narcissus-X? Narcissus-X is the Artist. But is art learned? Can art be learned?
Questions! Questions! Narcissus-X needs not questions. Narcissus-X seeks, Narcissus-X sees, Narcissus-X seethes in the cauldron of creativity!
Tea?
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Narcissus-X Muses on Inescapable Cable Channels
Narcissus-X finds art in the artless, artlessness in the arts, for art is all and all is art, for the artful artist. Even inartistic drivel and cant may cast shadows, illuminating darkly the way to true expression: too true to woo.
Talentless twirlings of thumb-twiddling fans, exonerated only by ignorance of Art: Who mourns for Adonis, or the Quatloo Quartet? None but the lonely Harcourt. Game, set, match, but remember: only you can prevent forest fires. Fires leap, shadows dance, thought fades and feelings prance. Foolish foibles of rhymeless rants echo silently, for what purpose serves delicious, home-style barbecued buffalo wings?
The old died young, but Jung had some good ideas.
Ignoble aardvarks of illustrious descent strew costly pearls of wisdom before expiring. Expiring what? Alas! Poor aardvarks: I knew them well. But the New York Mets are oh for six and two for tea: me yew you and yew for age. Age, time, entropy, vast bleak asphalt path of existence.
Why does Narcissus-X trifle with such tawdry twitterings? Because they are there, and there, and there. They're everywhere!
And the remote hides of vanished species haunt the dreams of Narcissus-X, as Narcissus-X delves into the dusty depths beneath the couch, seeking release.
Talentless twirlings of thumb-twiddling fans, exonerated only by ignorance of Art: Who mourns for Adonis, or the Quatloo Quartet? None but the lonely Harcourt. Game, set, match, but remember: only you can prevent forest fires. Fires leap, shadows dance, thought fades and feelings prance. Foolish foibles of rhymeless rants echo silently, for what purpose serves delicious, home-style barbecued buffalo wings?
The old died young, but Jung had some good ideas.
Ignoble aardvarks of illustrious descent strew costly pearls of wisdom before expiring. Expiring what? Alas! Poor aardvarks: I knew them well. But the New York Mets are oh for six and two for tea: me yew you and yew for age. Age, time, entropy, vast bleak asphalt path of existence.
Why does Narcissus-X trifle with such tawdry twitterings? Because they are there, and there, and there. They're everywhere!
And the remote hides of vanished species haunt the dreams of Narcissus-X, as Narcissus-X delves into the dusty depths beneath the couch, seeking release.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Narcissus-X Excogitates on a Parroting Window
Narcissus-X excogitates on a window's parroting of Narcissus-X, while beyond the pain sings a nocturne of brilliant blackness. But who sings? Or what?
Endorphic shades of desultory dreams draped across Dunkirk's drum.
Orestes, pursued by the Amenities: Cruel kindness; kind cruelty. None but the running hart knows the ascetic clarity of spring water, fresh from nature's bounty.
Beware squirrels in lederhosen! They slice! They dice! They make julienne fries!
Endorphic shades of desultory dreams draped across Dunkirk's drum.
Orestes, pursued by the Amenities: Cruel kindness; kind cruelty. None but the running hart knows the ascetic clarity of spring water, fresh from nature's bounty.
Beware squirrels in lederhosen! They slice! They dice! They make julienne fries!
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Noctivagant Musings of Narcissus-X
Marzipan gardens of wonder.
Aureate symbols of promise against the night, as black cows hide within.
Remembered oblivion, forgotten smudge: distant sweetness of televised pitch.
Mithai and comfit, jujube and lolly.
Trolleys have conductors, but who will guard the jar?
Dulcet reminiscence fades as saccharine aftertaste grows.
Cyclamate warnings of doom, but who will mourn the rat?
Syrup torrents of amber light, licorice castles built in the night.
Cravings scream, reason withers: will Narcissus-X eat the fudge?
Yes.
Aureate symbols of promise against the night, as black cows hide within.
Remembered oblivion, forgotten smudge: distant sweetness of televised pitch.
Mithai and comfit, jujube and lolly.
Trolleys have conductors, but who will guard the jar?
Dulcet reminiscence fades as saccharine aftertaste grows.
Cyclamate warnings of doom, but who will mourn the rat?
Syrup torrents of amber light, licorice castles built in the night.
Cravings scream, reason withers: will Narcissus-X eat the fudge?
Yes.
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