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A RUSTY FISHING LURE HANGS FROM A PELICAN’S UPPER BILL; AN APPAREL TAG AROUND HIS NECK/ MAKING PARENTS WORRY HOW HE MIGHT REBEL NEXT. THEY’LL NEVER UNDERSTAND.

SONG TO ACCOMPANY THIS PASSAGE. TILL IT’S DONE (TUTU), AS SUNG BY D’ANGELO. IN THE RECORDING OF DECEMBER 15, 2014 BY D’ANGELO AND THE VANGUARD. PERFORMANCE TIME: THREE MINUTES AND FIFTY-ONE SECONDS. WITH FILM CREDITS TO KENDRA FOSTER, RUSSELL ELEVADO, BEN KANE AND DAVE COLLINS.

SEVERAL BLANK PAGES LIKE FRESH SNOW. HE LOOPS SLOPPY CURSIVE—FINE ARTS, PISSING BLUE OUT THE TIP OF BIC’S DICK. MAKING TRAILS, LIKE COMETS AT DAWN. THEN HE WROTE THESE WORDS WITH HIS PEN: TOOK A FALL. PENNIES. PAVEMENT AFTER RAINFALL. EYES GLAZE. PAIN.

REMISSION OF CAUSE AND EFFECT.

WITH THE THIRST OF A SPIDERWEB AT SUNSET, INVENTION SUCKLES AT NECESSITY’S TENDER, SWOLLEN BREAST, RAPIDLY RETCHING RIPE MILK, GLAZING A TERRY SPIT RAG AND OTHER OBJECTS FOR EVERYDAY LIVING ONLY TO BEGIN AGAIN—INSATIABLE.

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THE CLOUDS SHUFFLE ABOUT, LIKE CATTLE, PRODDED ALONG BY THE CHANGING DIRECTIONS OF WIND. THE SKY IS NOW A PISTACHIO AND LEMON AND AUBERGINE, ZEROING TO A GRAY THAT WOULD’VE CHARMED EVEN THOM BROWNE. HE TURNS ON THE TELEVISION, THEN TURNS IT OFF. HE WALKS BACK AND FORTH BETWEEN THE SOFA AND THE WINDOW. SLOWLY, HE SITS DOWN AND BEGINS TO DRAW.

HE IS NOW IN A VEHICLE, THE LANDSCAPE AROUND HIM MELDS INTO A DANCE CHOREOGRAPHY OF SORTS, A HIGH SPEED BALANCHINE MOVEMENT. IT’S SO DARK THAT THE STACCATO OF LIGHT FROM THE LAMPPOSTS BEAM DOWN WITH THE IMMENSITY OF FLARES. THEY MAKE CONTACT ON THE WET TARMAC AND SHATTER INTO INFINITESIMAL GLASS BEADS CONTAINING THEIR OWN UNIVERSES—THIS MUST BE WHAT WARHOL MEANT BY FIFTEEN MINUTES OF FAME—AND THEN IN AN INSTANT, IT WAS GONE.

MORE INFORMATION AT FASHION FILM FESTIVAL MILANO, KUNSTHAL CHARLOTTENBORG, HYPEBEAST, KALTBLUT MAGAZINE, TEETH MAGAZINE, VOGUE ITALIA, KODD MAGAZINE.