The Aristocracy

I like when the form is kind of stuck-up even though I’ve got a Southern accent and my place looks like a graduate student’s. 1. I enjoy high art but realism swamps me. 2. The material world swamps me. 3. I came to understand the forms of realism, the aesthetic phenomenon. 4. You take a random person from daily life. 5. You take their dependence on their historical circumstances. 6. You make them the subject. 7. You see, they operate the modern. Things happen ... minutes, hours, days. The order of life coming from life itself. Back to life / Back to reality (like Soul II Soul). It is sublime and grotesque. 8. They make rich forms. Something steady. Less manic. Something real like a bell inside the Golden Seahorse Gift Shop. Don’t take me on that ride. I don’t want to go down. 9. To what degree are the subjects taken seriously? They naturally swim beneath the icy sheets and find breathing holes. They may remember their arctic homes. They are one of the park’s most sociable creatures. I said enter the water with them. Graceful imitation of strange palms and seaflowers. A seaflower of a thousand colors, aquarium pigmented. It is my violent passion for seaflowers, Molly. I want the entire underwater palace built of roaring seaflowers! Beluga! Beluga! Wither and mow. The child’s song. Emerald kayak and the femme fatale who sleeps in it, Victorian, long, frothy hair and the death drive, flesh like the statement, “I lost a friend in the sea garden.” The notes, staccato, vortex, paradisiacal, gold bell in a coffin just in case I wake up. And the way darkness tunnels inside a car on its way to its pinpoint destination. No one tells you the moon’s going to end up like this. No one. So you just move towards it. That’s all the moon ever was. Ding. Ding.