You need to walk to the other part of the canvas and get down on your knees and there I am by a floor: the size of a railroad spike. – Maurice Kilwein Guevara “Self-Portrait”
A photograph taken in color, in poptastic color. Bubbly and Jem Pink. It covers a wall, somewhere in the background, it looks like an error, but it isn’t. It’s nothing. A pile of crumpled tissues equals me. I’d disappear except like a gash in the photo, there I am. In black and white hidden behind a beautiful blond field hockey chick, I remain. Amongst beautiful photos an atonal, dissonant, abstract, deadly me.
The viewer looks away, focuses on the pep squad. Their post abortive faces are perfect. A cheap plastic mask covers my face, but the strings broken and The viewer can see the gaping, smelly, maggot infested, and hypoxic face. The death fluid seeps out and eats away at the pink flamingo people in the foreground. Their eyes wax wide and teeth flash nuclear.
A fire starts around me and eats up the color in the photo. The viewer cannot leave. His feet are fastened to the floor. He must watch this. I reach out to my photo-static companions, but each touch removes them from view. The fire devours the whole picture and beneath a pile of ash. My grey photo remains reaching. The viewer is dead.