Art Innocence Theatre and War
... god still loved her in spite of the fecal rains that poured down on her and from which she was made to drink ...
Ant Generals and Lazy Fat Ant Queens of the Ant Brigades are furiously working on the normalization of war and war talk and expectation. They write their opinion pieces and try sounding intelligent and knowledgeable to dispel any thought that they might in fact be moronic arseholes with reasonably high IQs. Farting out their shitty minds garnered from prestigious families and sewer rats, the Ant generals and lazy fat queens of the ant factories soil the cultural psyche with their fakery skills and semonic fertility drugs to masturbate the minds of vulnerable and isolated and desperate beings clinging to the impossible thought of finality being truly final. And for the child there is the over-riding dread; that shudder vibrating from the first cracks of thunder and the roar of the death jets supporting the darkest shadows of innocent imagination. While all the while Skull watches from one of those shadowy corners devastated by bland indifference. Skull no longer feeds but offers a kind of terror in nourishment to frighten even the mask of some gruesome Impaler. Skull fakes art and theatre in the fragile nests of ants that build monuments to their futile civilizations. And you say it is all so incomprehensible, an AI LSD fueled cartoon of charlatan investors in some orgy of sharks fucking in storm-water drains of one's educated mind and frugal study. So must we surrender to the Ant generals and lazy fat queens of the ant brigades in order to save the child watched over by the Skull.
POTATO HEAD AND THE INEVITABILITY OF WAR
Potato Head dreams of death. He sees the Chinese stamping on the heads of new born babies so he can triumph over the devastation as a great war-time leader like King Leonardo, the king of Bongo Kongo, or even some pelican prince from some sand bank rising above a puddle somewhere or other. And the court of White Russian democrats await death in basements for their lack of zeal to the Movement of History as advocated by those who really KNOW. The idealist holding an ancient gun pointing at the child of some Has-Been is convinced of the necessity to sacrifice the child to the demon of socialist sainthood. Yes, this is the cause. Potato Head can quote such atrocity to support his advocation of a Chinese war with Tasmania or some inland penitentiary. Potato Head is sincere. A sincere Penis waiting for god to intervene and rejuvenate a lost opportunity. Potato Head is also a Penis. A penile man of no substance except for the harboring of semonic seeds of fakery and delusion.
And Potato Head reproduces himself throughout the education system for the education of spiders and poisonous roaches. Yes, his mission is clear. His sincerity is unquestioned. His devotion to the Ant Generals and Lazy Fat Ant Queens is undeniable. Potato Head pisses in the direction of the Skull that watches him and shows no emotion as it questions Potato Head's philosophic and ideological pretentions. The Skull is no intellectual. The Skull simply IS. And Potato Head has no answer.
THE LITTLE GIRL CRIES
The little girl is crying. She saw her mother being raped by ten soldiers as she was held down by an officious female of no fixed ideology. She saw her father being hacked to death by the masculine poet of politically correct world visions. She was forced to bury her brother alive under fear of her own personal mutilation. And she was made to feel thankful that god still loved her in spite of the fecal rains that poured down on her and from which she was made to drink. And she came to admire the depths to which men would plummet for the sake of cultural honor and the plight of Ant Generals and the Lazy Fat Ant Queens.
And she learned NOT to cry; she learned to look into the eye of the bull ant kingdom and lazy-fat queendom and vowed to take up the Aukus to obliterate the laser-light certainties of emotional equivalence that surrounded her. She embraced the Skull and when it was appropriate, she made it her lover and she danced within the tombs of lost cities and forgotten arts. She became the shield of Medusa and the cry of the crackling fire where potatoes were being baked for late night bar b cues for harbor-side parties of the wealthy and conservatively dispositioned who laughed a lot and made funny jokes about farts and fisting. She became the muse of her Skull whose eye sockets became the all-knowing dreaming of dispossessed and disillusioned dreamers and artists who were both fascists and anarchists at the same time. "There is no art" she would scream from awakened dreams on hot nights; "only needles in the eyes of certain death".
And the SKULL remained dispassionate. The child became old eventually to be consumed within the Ant nest of the Ant Generals. And if the Skull could dream, it would be of that child who is buried with her own dreams within the weight of unspecified detachments and centuries of fakery and ruins. Yet from the grounds we see Potato Head spewing up as a newborn growth that defies all logic and all possibility.
Stalin, Hitler, Jack Smith and Jill Hill welcome the little brat ... Skull sits on the mantle piece of some godly man being served a meal by a dutiful wife ... the war rages on a 1960s TV set in between the televising of the cricket and some Trotskyite pours another beer to recall the glory days of all those who were part of the movement ...
Joe Woodward 25 July 2023