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Wednesday, September 01, 2004

inspiré des toiles de Toly Kouromalis

Howdy!

Back in July Pouèt-cafëe launched issue 8 here at the gallery. During the proceedings they managed to write a collective poem that was based on the art work up on the walls here by Toly Kouroumalis. If you are interested in reading it click here.

Be forewarned it is a French Poem, for those of you who are square-heads, I will get the blokespeak (read, computer translation only suitable for belly laughs) translation from Babelfish:

Sensual and marvellous gallery
the tables inspire an extraordinary basket to us d imagination. Let you go by l'imaginaire of l'au-beyond!

* * *

surrealist Rob Zombie was present
it will remember this fellatio
Christ gave her rod
a feeling to however demolish bonds
blood invites us to this ball of the waked up bodies...

* * *

Blood vibrates with the sound of the pain.
Moments of be delirious colors,
which howl:
"C'est long, now!
C'est when, death?
C'est when, calms it?... "

* * *

These macabre faces
with the hot colors
look us with
these eyes malefic
which see us, see, see!

* * *

Death howls its desire with the life -
Its desire of dance, of music
of poetry, d'amitié. (JKB)

* * *

Red blood, demonic faces
Here is, the black which circumvents
Our beings and l'étourdissant
In a bursting, a howl
One sees strange
Nuit blackness
Veiling my saddened face. (Cathou)

* * *

Suffering electric and sarcastic
Reddish, scarlet, and almost
Nothing, looks at there! the suffering
Look at the evil censured dirtiness,
listen to scarlet misfortune by-there for black. (Roger)

* * *

your narrow centres
pour red équimauves on the
children of Satan your crack succumb to sweats
of craters.

* * *

hard to find
its own color
in the cacophony of the refusal

* * *

Contrasts s'épousent
on a Prismacolor furnace bridge

* * *

But my torpor excels in
ambiguities which puent blood and
j'y am even accustomed

* * *

I m'habille then of my favorite skin and, always hesitant in front of l'acte, launches me against the likings of the wind.

* * *

Windows which relate to the effect penetrating

* * *

Overpowered human weakness; bestiale!

* * *

The human bestiality,
That which counts so much, which m'empêche to live
to breathe, dirtiness...
Directions.
Without defense
Vis-a-vis with human bestiality.

* * *

Do art is life is art
poetry coil truth
speaking of truth
my life is youth & air
what's to fair?
Only poetry. (Ci)

* * *

L'espoir, hope... is underestimated.

* * *

The group we call
the architects
sits down in the corner counts
of the smoking section,
the senior architect
with his grey to hair, length,
and glasses,
penguinlike in his formality,
his rumpled grey follows.
They flourish unthinking mechanical pencils,
ever-replenished
At the waitresses who live gold die
by to their singular precious pens,
without which food will not arrives,
half-liters of wine
being uneasy treasures
when solely entrusted to memory.

* * *

half pitch of fucks
itches the world broad At
small flightless birds
dressed in tuxedos
serf half-baked pumpkin black and white
and glitter with chilly mirth

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