literature

Jackson Pollock: Number 8, 1949

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Literature Text

at a certain angle of my dread
I can see the motion of your hair
glomming onto chaos in furious tangles
slickened with existential after-birth;

i have faith in our confusion.

comtrails of protozoa
desperate for the exit
collide with vectors of a monarch
in a honeysuckle rage

and deep within the forest
of your dark and brittle neurons
i am buried to the eyes,
waiting for a seizure
.
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AlecBell's avatar
Your poem is as excellent as ever, Shane. From the exploring I did while I was working on The Pollocks [link], I felt that he was a desperate man, haunted by ghosts and demons. I think his mature work makes him the Whitman of American painting. He seems to arrived at that end by a mighty act of transcendence.

Though Uncle Walt can hardly be seen as a desperado, his demons made nice!