post-ironic-dadaism
The Icon's Musings
The "Serious" writing of "Iconographic-Propaganda"
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Nov. 15, 2022
“IN BLOOM”
”IN BLOOM”
I want to get out of my mind.
I hate you so much.
From you I have gathered a garden, stemmed from the lust for beauty.
You have grown beautiful, oh roses gathered.
Petals red as blood,
Dressed black as dusk
Hard as Obsidian.
Neon-Flesh Pustules, the flowers buckling against you-
My bronchial trees are in bloom.
Past my esophagus, aching and gnawing
I find their thorns piercing and crawling
Prolapsed as you stand, flowering in my teeth-
They overflow my lips and muffle my scream.
Neon-Flesh pustules, and the flowers buckling against you.
I find fungal sprout in my nervous system-
Every receptor, every inch- crawling, squirming, screaming all the while
Constant flaring, signals overbearing
There is no moment without your staring.
I would weep to your beauty, your pain and brutality, your insanity untold-
Yet you have taken that from me too.
My eyes glazed and plucked, ripened red as cherries and falling.
One day they hit the ground with a wet, dense “Smack”- bursting retinas as they expulsed themselves like seedpod.
I stand in blood tilled silt
My legs grown holes, flies buzzing around.
Orifices tunneled, skeletonized flesh
Twist and twirled into water-drawing root.
I perpetuate you while I live.
I am a monument to your cancer.
A beautiful rose and nothing more
A pretty face I’d like to have, to stand and bloom and weep and grow-
You are naught but flesh corroded
An imitation of all their beauty
I hate you so.
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Nov 6, 2022
“Faint”
ABLATION ; TO BREAK COMPOUND
Faint, between the lines- margin, marginalized.
Cut and cornered and burnt and smashed.
The Idea itself, a faint one- lingering, not growing nor shrinking nor fading nor gaining.
It holds steady, aching in the background: a pulsing throb, a shooting shock.
The mirror holds steady, even when smashed- eyes linger, staring into the crowd and observing, constant- forever.
Endless gawking and forceful gazes, not unnoticed by the crowd- fervent aching, longing, yearning-
Is it empathy or is it fetish?
A Noncompliant disregard for all things held with no regard
I hate you, despise you- find you longing in denial, a fetid rotted thing or change long waited for…
YOU HAVE TWISTED MY EMPATHY.
I WISH FOR ABLATION.
TO BURN, TO CUT, TO WARP YOU AWAY… TO TURN BACK.
THE ROAD IS CRUMBLED LONG BEHIND ME.
THERE IS NO MORE OTHER.
HOW CAN I GET BACK TO YOU.
WHEN YOU WERE NEVER THERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?
“I won’t be ignored”, it cries fervently.
“You can’t turn your back on me”- Compound weeps, mirrored tears taken from the crowd, the lust for weeping grows deeper within.
The systems cry out in similarity, A complex cascading through biology, biology inflicted with the sin of psychology.
I CAN’T FEEL THE WAY I DID BEFORE
YOU CAN’T BE IGNORED
YOU HAVE FORCED MY MIND, MY ACTION.
YOUR FACE HAS CHANGED AGAIN-
FIRST THE “DIGNITY FRONT”, THEN THE “ARCHIVIST YEARN”, NOW “COMPOUND”
…
HOW CAN I REMOVE THAT WHICH IS ME?
#tw: operation#tw: surgery#tw: hospital#tw: doctors#art#photoshop#digitalart#digital art#writing#collage#colalgeart#collage art
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10/23/22
"EMPATHETIC AESTHETIC"
I've seen your face pass mine.
I've seen your eyes run deep.
I've seen your hair, your dress.
I want your short hair; I want your long hair.
I want dense curls; I want frizzed straight.
I want your sharp jaw; I want your rounded cheeks.
I want your fanciful dress; I want your rugged minimalism.
I want your lipstick; I want your barren-face.
I want you.
I want you as me.
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11/1/22
"COMPOUND: EMPATHY"
It's hard to grasp, hard to think, hard to speak.
I'd like to ask- is it simply empathy?
Is your attraction a misplaced admiration, the want of other upon self- a twisted thing from confused emotion?
Is it lust? The physical want for what is stared at, the other- the body, the flesh, the physicality of them-
Or is it truth? The thing so feared- a want, a yearning for identity- an intake of definition...
It may just be a passing thought, another complex amidst the endless tide within your mind-
It may be a passing complex, a thing to break down as all the others-
Or it may be permanent.
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10/18/22
"The Pain Train"
Destiny Manifest, The followers engaged within collective yearning,
The "Death of An Author", once a pipe-dream turns certainty.
Hold my name in no regard, for I have hollowed it's meaning-
"Iconographic_Propaganda" holds only the weight you give it.
I only exist within your assumptions, your lies between the lines.
I am what exists between your bias and the work, The idea manifest from inference.
Congratulations- we are going to make something beautiful.
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10/4/22
"Accomplishment"
ASK NOT FOR WHAT I GIVE YOU ; FOR WE WILL GIVE YOU EVERYTHING
...
WE'VE MADE SURE THERE IS NOTHING LEFT.
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9/28/22
"Bury Me Now"
Your radio station blares a song out of tune, irises shining reflections inverse to truth- collections of characters falling from your lips uttering words from emotional state nonexistent-
And all is fine.
The gears run smoothly, your work gets done- but all the wile song builds within, music in-key with the all, meaningful reflections warbling through irises as truth blisters through FM wave-
The station plays a song in tune, no keys missed- all truths said, understated left bare-
They don’t like that.
It’s “Wrong”- Internals blaring the quiet while muffling the loud, meta-communication perverted into something so far from correct.
The Defense is launched, newspapers dotted with words plaster the psyche, torn off one by one as the crowd riles further- Only the guilty need explanation.
FCC shutdown, Scheduled-Programming deceased-
Batteries ripped from radio and in their place bureaucratic lines of medicinal proverbs, a heart hollowed and stuffed to burst with chemical concoctions in lieu of self correction.
Why are you doing this to us?
Look what you made us do.
Normal people don’t do this.
I thought you loved me.
Just open up.
Why are you doing this to yourself?
How could you do this to me?
It’s because you should.
It isn’t that hard.
Their ad-campaign squeezes itself in place of your curated air-waves, burned like cattle-brand against the ego, their objections turned your identity.
Now your mask is broken, torn across the floor- They ripped it off, because it slipped a single time.
Now your chest is forced open- they’ll have their way with it.
Your insides are theirs, you treated them improperly.
Your words are forfeit, why listen to you?
Your identity is shunned; why did you lie to us?
Your “Self” is unwanted; Just act right.
You’ll learn soon enough, What isn’t broken can’t be fixed- but it can be broken to fit.
#art#artwork#digitalart#digital art#gif#animated#imagepost#photoshop#tw:verbal abuse#writing#collage
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“Grappling”
I don’t want to die like that
Give death suddenly, not expected
Let it rush in, not dripped through a tube
I don’t want my body to kill me
I don’t want it to stop working…
I’d like to choose when it ends.
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“Metastasis”
Air passes lungs, pressure readings nominal-
Heartbeat doubled, tripled- yet no faster than the rest, burning chest and pain throughout, nerve spreading root against existing system.
Bombardment of immune systems, a nuclear war-zone within the heart and lungs, tumor like roots spreading through endless cavern- veins like eyes, detecting and seeing- spreading bile and influence.
Mind turned, rended cacophony of screams so cavernous, cotton-filled mouth to stop gnashing teeth rendering all in mouth asunder, muting screams.
Hands try and squirm as center-mass interior is burrowed by sprouting things, vein and bone composite acting as drill and spreading heart’s influence past required means.
And all the while the last resort kicks in, immune system firing all implements at once, blowing chunks of flesh and wall microscopically with neutrophil and compliment system…
Autoimmune disease rears it’s head, the immune system has identified the foreign body as an Identical Enemy, one of the same flesh and blood- Wrong, morphing, incorrect.
The body attacks the self now… Furthering the heart’s destruction of “Theseus”
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"𝗶𝗻𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲"
The Body is a grim fixture, a constant in the back of the mind.
A thing to break down with complete certainty, infinitely complex.
We innately no nothing of it's mechanic, yet it functions.
A building- It's supports the same material as the walls, the windows the same as the door.
All feeling, all fragile- all endlessly complex, interwoven, operating to near perfection.
Until it doesn't.
You are a sovereign king of endless, things beyond total comprehension- resting within you are features and fixtures so mind numbingly infinite it has taken the combined lifetime of millions, all humanity’s knowledge compressed together for this small foothold of understanding.
...
It is, arguably not you- The self is hidden within, somewhere- but you have no exertion of will.
You can move, you can flex- You can blink, choose to see, shut things out- walk, talk, and think... Things easily ripped away.
Everything else is automatic, instinctual- it is not you, it is the body acting it's own.
#art#artwork#digital art#digitalart#photoshop#writing#horrorofself#tw: degradation#tw:organs#bodyhorror
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"Seven of Swords"
GUILT MANIFEST
THE BROKEN ANGEL'S WING
JUDGEMENT
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Fame is a fog that obscures the famous.
When you think of the rock-star, you don’t think of the person- You think of the skill, of the music.
The author surrenders their ideas to the crowd, ideas morphed to the masses as they are rendered dead.
This is the fog of fame; The rock-star obscured, the death of an author.
The Icon is the fog of fame manifest, the fame without the famous, the rock-star without the song, the space between the words of the work.
A white, four-pointed star adorned with smile hidden in the far corners of mankind’s mind, and behind it’s surface: The Icon- The fog of fame manifest, the fame without the famous, the rock-star without the song, the space between the words.
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"Longing"
"I feel as though I might be vanishing.", you claim.
"...But aren't you here right now?" responds The Icon.
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I am an Artist ; Use tag “Art” or go to blog “post-ironic-dadaism” to find my stuff.
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