Tag Archives: ataman

Turkish rhyme: THE VENTRILOQUIST OF DISORDER

The ventriloquist of disorder
Now, you know
A man is really
Mad when he
Obsesses over
Someone else’s
Madness;
You know an
Artist really
Matters when
He does so with
Bitter sadness.
Gives an infected
Transsexual a
Glance at itself,
In the mean
While he comically
Belly dances.
A video archive
Of Orange County
Bounty hunters,
Porn stars,
Hippies and prancers.
 
This Turkish
Man whom I
Hadn’t heard of
Before I engaged
In this artistic
Battle –
I feel ashamed –
Turned my
Skepsis into rattles
Of the brain cells,
Partly psychological,
If convention
Is the cattle,
And the art I
Surrender to saddled
Across the backs
Of the horses we
Use to wrangle.
 
Jump from one
Frame of Beta
To another,
Like a son cheating
On his mother,
With an obsession
For florescent colors;
OCD, collections,
And such.
 
This post-modern
Hero is the doctor
Who likes to wander,
The analyst coming
Out from underneath
The disease on which
It ponders.
And it catches
Infectious, delusive
Effects as it
Projects its subjects
Obsessively.
 
The analyst turns
Catalyst, and the
Audience the doctor
Of a second-hand
Patient,
Patiently,
As it assumes
The examinee proctor.
And we study ourselves.
 
Thank you,
Ventriloquist man,
For being
Sickly inspired
By our sickness,
Humanity.


Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man
Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Art and the mad man. The mad man. The mad man in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Let’s make one thing clear: I am a mad man. I am not, however, the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernistic thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. For he is otherwise known as the genius artist. And although it is real that genius artists are mad men – I, a mad man, am not a genius artist. I am merely a man from another dimension with the desire to share his moments of being mentally incapacitated, of having been thrown back by the force of the mad man genius so hard once, that he was pulled onto and forced to blueball the horse of crazy for the rest of his life.

It must be evident, by now, where I am going with this: Madness is living in me through the faces of cultural Europe – if it wasn’t alive already, through birth. And I wasn’t born the way you real people are born…So…

I see Caravaggio, Keats, Socrates and Ataman. For it is them that I next visit as my scrawny little behind makes a move across the rough, unholy and uncoveted lands of Western Europe. At least, it takes a mad man to believe they are there. See for yourself.

It takes one to know one.

I talk to them, I smell their dead presence as ignorant and disbelieving tourists walk past – snap, snap…tap! As if a ghost can be captured on celluloid…It can’t, okay? Pixels neither. One needs to invite it into the habitat of the living with some live conversation, maybe a smoke, and a fresh cup of coffee, or something or other. Do that, and you’ll be up for a real good conversation. Find out about untruths that will make your ears sing. Green eggs and ham isn’t the only meal we never heard of…

It turns out the genius creator has decided he will be the mad man none of us, without losing their fragile minds, could be. Indeed, at this very moment even, my fingers have trickled away from the cerebral center they are controlled by, and green goo in the shape of square bubbles is oozing down the walls left and right of me. There isn’t much sense anymore in letting these letters fall together so coherently; they have nothing to say about the state I am found in yester morning days, seven pickles…Path, laugh, dribble…

And indeed, as Dalí pointed out, the only difference between mad men and mad men genius creators, so to say, is that the latter aren’t actually mad. I have to admit – I do feel the same. “We are but men, ROCK!”

And so my humble little behind is out to find its kindred souls…


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