the unknown faces in the hall
it could’ve been someone i knew though i can’t be sure from those states of creative origination where elemental energy processes matter and the first thoughts of this newly forming thing are smeared and smudged in the disfigurement of periphery each face i compose runs through me with macabre sincerity textures emotionalized from the underworlds of fame exemplifying —the great lie— which makes some unique and others not the genome remonstrated: we are not at all rare and this realization is okay to think much the same these thoughts a tree looks like a tree looks like a tree looks like a slight manufacture refinishing itself by —the great truth— deducting thought for others to think much the same this process so distorted so unique so temporarily human as if the determination of a species for just a brief moment could be more than a blink in the spectrum of what makes time time and life life i could very well be this omniscient face i do not recognize like a jesus rumor spreading like fleas going under radar pretending to love all things and people and faces but who could really know that could just be some shallow suggestion some ghastly assumption we tell ourselves to imagine something greater from the harsh fabrics of nature the true belief goes as stated: the faces are pyramids like a tree blooming or a gust of wind ignited (is that me talking thinking it is wait no) these demands pike through me this matrix perils whispering inside me built on the idea that the natural world (if such a singular thing could exist) is now consumed by itself and what appears unnatural exists arbitrarily under the same temporal rule this microbe this single-celled organism that evolved three billion years ago when nature was still understanding itself swimming like ejaculates struggling for survival maybe just one but probably not probably never and here compilations and clones reproducing and fucking and building on itself like skyscrapers until nothing is recognized then fucking again until it’s all fucked out and there’s nothing left but a hollow shell how pure each face that runs through me each thought so macabre so distorted so unique each of the billion faces that run through are in fact… me each microbe twitching each thought stroked bouncing off each other like bindlestiffs searching for their purpose their own remarkable purpose within a dream within a dream within a dream by LORIN DREXLER
Anthony is an artist born and raised in the Bronx.
Anthony works with multiple different mediums two of the main ones being Oil and Ink.
What is Gen Society?
Gen Society is an art space blog for visual art and creative writing collaborations. Hosted by writer and musician, Lorin Drexler, this online venue is an expressive experience for those interested in the poetic world of the arts. It is a literary journey through the hearts and minds of contemporary artists in practice and a reflection of those that have long passed.
If you’re an artist and would like to submit your work in consideration to collaborate with Gen Society, please click below: