old manifesto just for fun

Art of this century does not just speak aloud to viewers, it screams...and thrashes, bleeds, squirms. It is raw and carnal in its nature and yet cuddly like a childhood teddy bear; it clings to your hands like the remnants of a juicy orange,
dripping,

Drizzling,

Down chins and lips.

I believe in the art of hardened nipples, upside down hair blow-drying, sap staining car windows.

An ethereal, otherworldly art that sings, dances, laughs, hates, cries, loves, parties, creates, destroys, links, uses, and fucks.

Art of this century is everywhere and nowhere at once. It must be sought out and used to slowly bang one's head against until an idea bursts forth and coats them thickly. It builds from tradition yet is unconventional; it breaks norms into pieces and rearranges them apathetically at random. It is harmonic in all its chaos, like the crashing,

Splashing,

Breaking of waves upon warm waiting sand.

I believe in an art of contradictions, of revolution and peace alike, of the bizarre and the strangely sensual.
A vehement, insistent art that runs up to you and grabs you by the throat, squeezing you into oblivion with its power and impression.

Art must be enigmatic, always. There cannot be a specific answer to seek out, or a destination, only a conundrum-journey. It leaves you begging on dirt-dusted knees for more,
PLEASE,

More,

More....until you collapse in fatigue (only for a two minute break before going a second round).

Art of this century is scalding; it fixes what is broken and breaks what is fixed. It throws reality in a blender and sprinkles dreams atop, sending them into a flurry and opening the top suddenly, so the contents fly,

Hurtle,

Careen every which way.

I believe in the art of broken taillights, lighting storms, winter bike riding, streams of sweat trickling down a spine, baby oil.
A playful, electric art that pokes fun at a stagnant society, that employs math, politics, science, and stereotypes in the creative process, then turns around and makes mincemeat of them.

Art of this century bends, twists like yoga and tickles then abuses your fancy into submission, like an eager dominatrix in black leather with dangling whips and chains. It sends you into the corner for time-out and draws a whimper from your lips; it feeds the frenzy and takes advantage of sensibility, oozing,

Seeping,

Gushing like chocolate syrup into the crevices of your mind.

I believe in the art of freckled and pierced noses, morning coffee, ready-made TV dinners, trashy magazines.
A paralyzing, stupefying art that recommends picking wedgies in public and turns heads faster than a perfectly proportioned redhead.

Art must be an intentional accident, always. There cannot be specific guidelines to strictly adhere to, or a certain direction to flow in, only a beautiful disaster of haphazard, sensory matter. Its effortless splendor heaves you down,
D

O

W

N

Deep...into the fiery pits of abandon (never to be seen again).