"Crap Poetry at Sponto Gallery"by Mao Thing Awf
Here it is three days after Shagsbard's biffday and the multimedia Sundae at Sponto Gallery (Venice), featuring Two (at the door w/ books & DVD's), starring Log and Toylit reading Crap Poetry, Toylit's large paintings, and much intervocal permutation.
Log was barenaked, painted partially green with touches of red & blue by the time I arrived after 8 p.m.. She played the clarinet eventually, wearing her trademark bunny-ears and a black plastic strap-on dildo. She delivered poems and exhortations brandishing a plunger, the tip of the handle of which plumber's friend had had a brief acquaintance with her bunghole.
Earlier in the evening a cheez-whizz crucifix had been done on a large black panel (complete with INRI signage & nail-blobs) labeled Cheeziz; this was plungered into a smear-job by Toylit during a free-form lyric tirade on the uses of religion-art-commerce-guilt-redemption.
A length of T.P. from the printed-up rolls of Crap Poetry from "The Last Nowhere" was used to daub the crack of Log's ass while she sang & played. Audience participation was part of the generalized chaos; Log held a woman bent over by the waist and rhapsodized, plunger in hand again: the rubber cup applied every now & then to the buttocks, "saving us from all things artificial," as Log said.
Shaman-like, she had attendees sit on the floor in a circle. This was a gathering of the Church of the Kablahblah (a mystic branch of Muslim heresy) and there were shouts & murmurs of "Holy Kablahblah" while Miz Log sermonized. A shallow cup of her pee was offered (to bestow immortality) as communioned "holy water of the gay pride Jesus of joy and suffering." And an Afro-American guitarist played abstract riffs on squack-box-amplified while Toylit banged a drum & Log riffed liquid ululations on clarinet.
As the evening wound down, more paint was applied to Log's bare torso; and as she writhed on the floor strewn with large white paper, a new painting was effected: blue, yellow, red.
My "good ol' boy" pal Randy (the car salesman) (Porsche these daze) attended with me and had a blast. Needless to say, it was the "weirdness of its bareassed and unembarrassed spontaneity that most intrigued him.
As Poe says (in "The Poetic Principle"), "Poetry lies in a thirst for a wilder Beauty than Earth supplies."
Log was barenaked, painted partially green with touches of red & blue by the time I arrived after 8 p.m.. She played the clarinet eventually, wearing her trademark bunny-ears and a black plastic strap-on dildo. She delivered poems and exhortations brandishing a plunger, the tip of the handle of which plumber's friend had had a brief acquaintance with her bunghole.
Earlier in the evening a cheez-whizz crucifix had been done on a large black panel (complete with INRI signage & nail-blobs) labeled Cheeziz; this was plungered into a smear-job by Toylit during a free-form lyric tirade on the uses of religion-art-commerce-guilt-redemption.
A length of T.P. from the printed-up rolls of Crap Poetry from "The Last Nowhere" was used to daub the crack of Log's ass while she sang & played. Audience participation was part of the generalized chaos; Log held a woman bent over by the waist and rhapsodized, plunger in hand again: the rubber cup applied every now & then to the buttocks, "saving us from all things artificial," as Log said.
Shaman-like, she had attendees sit on the floor in a circle. This was a gathering of the Church of the Kablahblah (a mystic branch of Muslim heresy) and there were shouts & murmurs of "Holy Kablahblah" while Miz Log sermonized. A shallow cup of her pee was offered (to bestow immortality) as communioned "holy water of the gay pride Jesus of joy and suffering." And an Afro-American guitarist played abstract riffs on squack-box-amplified while Toylit banged a drum & Log riffed liquid ululations on clarinet.
As the evening wound down, more paint was applied to Log's bare torso; and as she writhed on the floor strewn with large white paper, a new painting was effected: blue, yellow, red.
My "good ol' boy" pal Randy (the car salesman) (Porsche these daze) attended with me and had a blast. Needless to say, it was the "weirdness of its bareassed and unembarrassed spontaneity that most intrigued him.
As Poe says (in "The Poetic Principle"), "Poetry lies in a thirst for a wilder Beauty than Earth supplies."
